


Resilience

by Aussie_Muggle



Series: Ladies of POI: Joss Carter [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Gen, I may have killed off Reese to give Carter angst, Ladies of POI Art/Fic Challenge, Oops, Shaw gets hugged a lot, because shaw, finally got this beta read, ily Reese, prompt: name (author's choice), rating mainly for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4138524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aussie_Muggle/pseuds/Aussie_Muggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rough few days turns into a rough few years. Carter, Finch and Shaw become Warren, Whistler and Grey.</p><p>But they've always been resilient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calling

**Author's Note:**

> A one shot that turned into a monster longer than my thesis. I'm experimenting with a weird writing style that may or may not work... but it's fun writing like this.

“Get out.”

“Harry, I’m so sorry.”

“Get out, Miss Groves… or so help me, I will have Miss Shaw remove you.”

“There's no need-”

“ _Go_.”

“… we’ll be in touch, Harry.”

 

*

 

After she had been discharged from the hospital, after Taylor had been sent safely home with Paul, and after Fusco had dropped her off at her dark, empty house, Carter received a text.

CNR MADISON, EAST 37th ST.

STATE LIBRARY

No explanation. Just an address for a building Carter was fairly certain had been under construction for almost a decade. A library she had visited a few times as a school girl.

She dressed slowly and carefully, pulling a buttoned shirt and jacket over her injured shoulder, and fitted her sling.

The taxi driver chatted aimlessly to her. Carter’s one word responses must have been unconvincing (or maybe she just looked terrible), because he shot her a worried look in the rear-view mirror.

“Are you alright, Ma’am?” he asked.

“Rough day,” she answered, handing him his money. “Just here’s fine.”

“Hope things look up.”

Carter couldn’t quite muster up a response to that.

 

*

 

Harold Finch wasn’t the first man she had  found trying to drink himself into a stupor. He was, however, the only one who had bothered using a proper glass to do it. It must have hurt him to sit on the floor like that but Carter doubted that he cared.

Finch didn’t acknowledge her when she walked into the library at first. When he did, his voice was lifeless.

“How did you get here?” he murmured.

“I got a text,” whispered Carter. “I thought it was from you.”

“It wasn’t,” he responded dully. “You can leave the way you came.”

Carter didn’t move. She tried to think of something to say that wasn’t utterly banal.

 _“I’m sorry your best friend took the bullets meant for me,”_  seemed inadequate. So did _“I tried to push him out of the way but he wouldn’t move I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”_

Carter couldn’t think of anything. She wordlessly made her way towards Finch, slumped down beside him, took the whiskey bottle with her good hand, and took a long drink. Bear came to rest his head on her lap and Finch didn’t ask her to leave again.

Carter helped Finch to a small couch that seemed comfortable enough to sleep on. She made her way to the computer chair, sunk into it and took another drink. Her phone vibrated to life before she could finish the bottle.

THANK YOU

 The red light on Finch’s laptop camera was flashing. Carter wondered if Harold Finch’s machine would be talking to her if she was sober. She doubted it.

“You didn’t save him,” she said to the blinking red light. “Why didn’t you save him?”

I’M SORRY. I TRIED.

That was something Carter could understand.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “I couldn’t save him either.”

 

*

 

When Carter woke up her neck was stiff, her shoulder was aching and her head was pounding.  Finch was standing by her side, wearing yesterday’s suit and looking uncharacteristically dishevelled. He held a paper box with a sugary smell that made her stomach churn a little.

“I wasn’t sure if you were hungry,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed.

Carter felt vaguely nauseous, but her stomach was growling. She took a croissant, murmured her thanks, and took small bites. Finch took a seat by her side but he didn’t look any less uncomfortable.

“I apologise for my behaviour, Detective.”

Carter shook her head. 

“You don’t have anything to apologise for, Finch.”

“You came to console me when I was miserable and quite inebriated, and I was... unforgivably rude.”

“It’s okay, Finch,” said Carter. “Really.”

Finch took a pastry from the box and stared at it. He took so long that Bear began sniffing hopefully at it.

“The Machine contacted you,” said Finch finally.

Carter pulled out her phone. The texts had vanished. She wasn’t entirely sure if that last conversation was just an alcohol-induced daydream.

The implications of a  _computer_  actually talking to her hadn’t even registered. Carter felt sick again, but she suspected that the alcohol didn’t have anything to do with that.

“I take it that it’s not supposed to do that,” she said.

“No,” said Finch with no small amount of bitterness. “But it seems to be ignoring the rules when it suits its purposes.”

Carter was a homicide detective. She understood emotions and motivation, not computers. But the Machine had apologised. It told her that it had tried. It had thanked her for staying with Finch.

It seemed too human.

“John and I didn’t have phones,” said Carter, cursing herself for destroying her cell. “It couldn’t warn us.” 

 “I specifically programmed it not to interfere,” said Finch. “Now it speaks so candidly with the murderer who tormented me for days… but not to me. I could have warned you.”

Carter knew why it hadn’t contacted Finch. She swallowed back bile.

“You would have been in the crossfire, Finch.”

Finch shrunk a little in his seat. “ _But John might have survived”_ , remained unspoken and hung in the air between them.

“I haven’t heard from Shaw,” said Carter, a little loudly.

It was a very deliberate and awkward subject change. One that Carter regretted when Finch replied. 

“She went after Simmons. The Machine just gave me his number.”

Carter didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her heart was racing and if she did open her mouth, she was certain she really would throw up.

“You’re injured,” said Finch, looking anywhere but at Carter, “and neither of us are capable of stopping a trained ISA agent at the best of times.”

 _Do you want to stop her?_ Carter wanted to ask. She didn’t.

*

 

Zoe Morgan knew about everything that happened in New York City. So when Carter came to her apartment, she wordlessly let her in and took out an unreasonably large and expensive bottle of whiskey. Carter hoped this wasn’t becoming a pattern.

“Don’t take his job, Joss,” was the first thing Zoe said, hours later.

“What?” Carter murmured, uncomprehending.

“You’re going to help Harold. Don’t.”

Zoe spoke with a slight slur. Carter didn’t like seeing her like this. Zoe had always been unflappable. Untouchable.

But Zoe didn’t have many friends to lose.

“I have a job,” said Carter, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Can you  _really_  go back to the NYPD after all this?”

“I’m a  _cop,_ ” she insisted.

Her words did not sound as convincing as they had been days before.

*

                                                                                                                                         

Carter’s house was empty and quiet, so she returned to the library. Finch was staring at his computer, pretending to be busy, but the screen hadn’t changed since Carter had last seen it.

“I arranged for him to be buried as John Warren.”

Carter balked at the suggestion. Warren was impersonal. A lie.

_Seems like the only time you need a name now is when you’re in trouble. So am I in trouble?_

“His name was John Harris,” she said.

That name was wrong too. John  _Reese_  was his name. Kara Stanton had given it to him and the thought of that made her skin crawl.

But it was John Reese who loved Carter and Finch. Who they loved.

“John Harris has been dead for years,” muttered Finch. “John Reese would get the wrong sort of attention. John Warren was a veteran. He deserves recognition for that at least.”

After a moment, Carter nodded. It wasn’t enough. But nothing would be.

 

*

 

The feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach grew, as Carter approached the eighth precinct. By the time she went inside, it was as though her stomach had turned to lead. She made her way to her desk and shoved the envelope into her pocket before anyone could comment.

“I thought you were still on leave.”

Carter jumped at Fusco’s voice but managed to force a smile.

“I am,” she said. “Just came to pick up a few things.”

“How’s the arm healing up?”

Carter tugged at her sling with a grimace.

“Wish it was faster. How’s Lee?”

A flicker of remembered fear crossed her partner’s face and Carter hated herself for ever putting him in that position.

“Kids are resilient, you know?” he said with an equally forced smile. “And I reckon he’s a little in love with Shaw.”

“Taylor was gushing about John for weeks,” said Carter with a small laugh. “It was-”

She stopped midsentence.

Something clenched around her chest and for a moment she couldn’t breathe,  _couldn’t think,_ and the room seemed to  _spin..._

“Carter…  _Joss_.”

Fusco touched her good shoulder. She didn’t notice how much she was  _trembling_ until he did. The world became steady again but her heart was still racing in her chest. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the interrogation room.

She could not stand to be in the building any longer.

“I can’t stay,” said Carter, her voice small. “I’m so sorry, Fusco.”

Fusco didn’t even look surprised.

“It’s okay,” he said with a sad, understanding smile. “You’ve done enough for these bozos. Including me.”

Her stomach twisted at the thought of leaving Fusco unprotected and alone after everything he had done for her.

“You need anything and I’m there,” she said rapidly. “Anything at all…whatever you-”

Fusco cut her off with a hug.

“And I’ve got your back, partner... whatever happens.”

 

*

 

“I heard what happened at the precinct.”

Carter was strangely grateful for Finch’s casual disregard for privacy. It meant that she didn’t have to explain herself.

 “Are you alright?” he asked.

Carter made a noncommittal sort of shrug.

“I know I’m not useful to you without my badge but-”

“Your wellbeing is my primary concern,” said Finch firmly, “and it was never the badge that made you a valuable asset.”

“Listen Finch,” she said hesitantly. “I want to help you with the numbers.”

The colour drained from Finch’s face and he froze in shock. Carter took that as an invitation to continue.

“I know I can’t replace John but-”

“T-That’s not what I-” Finch took a breath before speaking. “I wasn’t planning on continuing.”

It was Carter’s turn to freeze.

“What about the numbers?” she whispered. “All those people…” 

Finch flinched at that. 

“The Machine has more autonomy than I am comfortable with,” he muttered. “And without Ms Shaw and… it’s no longer feasible.”

Carter struggled to keep her voice down. The numbers couldn’t stop because of  _her._

“I’ve helped you with the numbers for over two years now, Finch,” she said, a little loudly.

Finch shook his head.

“But you were not involved in situations concerning the Machine. There is a reason I use a pseudonym. Your son would be in substantial danger.”

“The risk is greater if she does nothing, Harry.”

Finch jumped in alarm and Carter immediately drew her gun and pointed it at the intruder.

Samantha Groves smiled at her like a psychotic kindergarten teacher, and Carter fought every instinct that told her to shoot this woman in the head.

Groves was utterly unfazed by the gun pointed at her. Carter’s shoulder seared with pain at the sudden movement and she forced herself not to wince. 

“Relax, Joss,” she said sweetly. “I’m a friend.”

Carter didn’t move an inch. 

“Lower your weapon, Jocelyn,” said Finch quietly.

“She kidnapped you,” snarled Carter.

“I’ve had her institutionalised and locked in a Faraday cage,” said Finch darkly. “I suppose we’re even.” 

Carter lowered her weapon but didn’t holster it.

“ _Well?_ ” she asked. “What’s going on that’s so important?” 

“There’s a storm on the horizon,” said Groves. “The world is about to fall into chaos.”

“ _Specifically_ ,” scowled Carter.

“Decima Technologies is active.”

It sounded like a ridiculous name from one of Taylor’s comic books but Finch turned even paler. Carter didn’t want to think about what kind of danger would make Finch consider an offer of assistance from Samantha Groves.

“You have a new number,” continued Groves airily. “You’ll need all the help you can get.” 

“Give me one good reason why we should trust you,” hissed Carter.

“Harry knows what happened the last time he didn’t listen to me,” pouted Groves. “His little pet-”

It took considerable effort not to point her gun at Groves again.

“Don’t you  _dare_  put that on him,” snapped Carter. “Answer the damn question or leave.”

Groves gave Carter a look from under her eyelashes and her smile widened.

“You have a photograph of John Harris and Jessica Arndt in your pocket.”

Carter recoiled as though struck. Groves continued, despite the stricken look on her face.

“You almost shredded it with his personnel file... but he was smiling in the picture... so you kept it.”

Finch touched her arm lightly. Carter forced herself to speak.

“Your call, Finch,” she said, struggling to keep her voice under control.

Finch nodded, almost indiscernibly. Groves’ smug smile turned triumphant.

“Your new number is Arthur Claypool. I believe he’s a friend of yours, Harry.”

 

*

It was probably the most awkward car ride Carter had ever had. Finch drove, Root rode shotgun and Carter sat behind her, with her hand on her gun. Which Root evidently knew about because an omniscient AI told her so.

“Still don’t trust me, Joss?” asked Root. 

“It’s Carter, Groves,” she corrected sharply.

“I prefer Root.” 

Carter let out a sharp, derisive laugh. She saw Root’s eyes narrow in the rear-view mirror.

“It’s a technical term,” said Root, for once sounding more annoyed than either perky or psychotic.

“Sure.”

“May I have a gun, please?”

“No.” 

“You know, Joss,” said Root with her sickly sweet, singsong voice. “I was surprised you didn’t go with Sameen.”

Finch’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. As did Carter’s grip on her gun. Root continued on heedlessly. 

“John would have burned down the world to find Simmons,” said Root with her now familiar brand of sugary malice. “Or are you frightened of what straight laced Jocelyn Carter is really capable of?” 

“If you intend to continue this line of discussion, we will happily leave you on the side of the road,” snapped Finch.

“Don’t be cruel, Harry.”

“I’m sure the Machine will call you a taxi,” muttered Carter, just loud enough for Root to hear. “Or an ambulance.”

Root laughed. 

“You’re very much like him,” she simpered. “Harry chose his new pet well.”

“What are the odds I’ll shoot you if you keep talking?” said Carter, with deceptive calm.

“7.63%.”

“That all?”

“It goes up to 15.4% if I call John a pet again.”

“Sounds about right.”

 

*

 

They slipped passed the nurses and doctors with relative ease, but Root froze dead in her tracks and pulled them both into an empty room.

“The ISA cut the hospital surveillance,” she said, a trace of doubt creeping into her voice which scared Carter more than anything Root had said or done. “She can’t see in here. She…She’s getting what She can from mobile phones.”

Carter felt Finch shaking beside her.

“If they can’t get the location of the drives out of Arthur, they’ll make sure that no one else will,” said Finch. “We need to get him somewhere safe.” 

Root, if possible, turned even paler.

“That won’t be easy,” she said. “Peter Collier and his friends will be here in three minutes and forty three seconds.”

“Vigilance?” asked Carter. “The cyberterrorist group?”

Finch nodded.

“May I have a gun now?” Root piped up.

“Do I look like an idiot to you?” snapped Carter.

“Two minutes and fifty one seconds.”

They didn't have time to hesitate. Carter pulled out her back up weapon and shoved it into Root's hands.

“If you hurt Finch, I will bury you somewhere so deep and dark not even the Machine can find you,” she growled.

Root cocked the gun and gave Carter a condescending smile.

“You’re adorable,” she said. “I’ll handle Vigilance. You and Harold get Arthur out of here. I’ll find you.”

*

 

Finch gasped in pain when the agent forced him to his knees and Carter’s shoulder throbbed as she was shoved down beside him. Arthur was whispering rapidly by Carter’s side, confused and frightened.

Shaw’s former employer frowned at her. She was a heavyset, imposing woman with a ridiculous code name that, like half the things Carter had heard today, belonged in one of Taylor’s comic books.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Control conversationally, as though her men didn’t have their weapons trained at Carter’s head.

Carter struggled upright and forced a smile. 

“We haven’t,” she said pleasantly. “I would have remembered being illegally detained by the government.”

Control let out a dark chuckle.

“You’re an idealist. Luckily, you’ll get to die one.”

Carter heard Finch’s sharp intake of breath beside her. Control turned to her subordinate and her expression turned to ice.

“Two in the head, please. Careful of the blood spray.”

Carter bit back a hysterical laugh. This was the second time this had happened to her in a week. Only this time, John Reese wasn’t going to burst through the door and-

A bullet shot through the wall and struck the agent about to kill her. Root burst through the door, a gun in each hand, hitting her foes with near supernatural accuracy.

Carter scrambled for a weapon and dragged Finch and Arthur upright, her shoulder screaming in protest as she did so. She unceremoniously shoved them both out of the crossfire and rushed to Root’s side.

They forced Hersh and Control to take cover, and fled the room. Before they could round the corner, Root toppled with a cry. Carter shot at Hersh and forced him into a corridor, but couldn't get to Root without putting herself in the open.

“Get to the elevator!” shouted Root. “The code is 5228 pound!"

“They’ll kill you!” protested Carter.

“You have to get the Samaritan drives! Protect Harold!”

Hating herself, repulsed by what she was doing, Carter tore herself away.

 

*

 

Carter’s head and shoulder were throbbing. Finch wordlessly handed her a mug of coffee and sat beside her.

“Is Root alright?” she murmured.

Finch hesitated before speaking.

“She… She seemed relatively unharmed over the phone. If a little shaken. She thanked you for trying to come back for her.” 

A lot of good that had done. Root had relied on her to get the drives and she had failed.

“Greer has the Samaritan drives,” said Carter. 

“Yes.”

“What do we do?” 

“I don’t know,” said Finch, sounding small and tired. “Detective, if you wish to stop-”

“No,” she said sharply. “I’m not losing you too, Finch.”

Finch didn’t argue the subject again.

 

*

 

“Hey Mom!” said Taylor brightly.

He hugged her, carefully avoiding her injured shoulder. Carter buried her fears about Decima and Samaritan and gave him a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek.  _He was getting far too tall..._

“I’ve made stir fry for dinner,” said Carter.

Taylor grinned. 

“Awesome. Let me get my stuff.”

Taylor bound carelessly into his bedroom and left Paul and Carter to talk. Paul looked enormously better. Spending time with his son had left him with a lightness Carter hadn’t seen since before they had both enlisted.

“When are you starting again at the eighth?” asked Paul brightly. 

Carter hesitated.

“I’m not going back.”

Paul lost his smile. 

“I thought they reinstated you,” he asked carefully.

“They did,” said Carter. “I’ve retired.”

“You loved being a cop.”

Carter opened her mouth to say something along the lines of ‘needing a change’ but the lie died on her tongue. Paul knew her far too well.

“Do you need to talk to someone?” Paul asked gently, more like a therapist than a friend.

Carter let out a bitter laugh.

“I’m pretty sure telling anyone about my week would be a felony.”

“So talk to me,” said Paul undeterred. “Leave out what you have to.”

Paul had always been easy to talk to. Carter was rarely open with her feelings but with Paul, it seemed so simple. Even after everything that had happened between them, it still was. A troubled marriage had become an easy friendship and Carter couldn’t help feeling like it always should have been that way.

“I can’t walk into my precinct without have a panic attack,” she said, slowly, evenly, desperately trying to keep her voice steady. “I failed to stop something that makes everything that happened with HR seem… _small_.”

Paul looked alarmed at that, but he didn’t press it. She always liked him for that.

Carter swallowed and kept speaking.

“I got my friend killed,” she whispered.

The rest of her thoughts came out in a jumbled mess and suddenly she couldn’t stop.

“He was happy again,” she blurted. “He was happy again and I got him killed and Shaw is  _gone_  and I can’t… I can’t even protect... We needed him…  _Finch_  needed him. John could have stopped all this. I  _know_  he could have stopped all this and Finch hasn’t slept in days and I…”

“Joss,” said Paul firmly. “It was not your fault.”

Carter shook her head. She had challenged HR, she had started a war, she had called John for help, and it was her that Simmons was aiming for.

“He was  _happy_ , Paul.”

Under that street lamp, he’d looked like he had by Jessica Arndt’s side in the photograph. A loved man with purpose and a future.

John Reese had been happy right until Simmons emerged from the alley. He had died with dull resignation and a sad smile. And with Carter and Finch at his side, begging him to  _stay._ He hadn't even looked surprised.

Taylor emerged from his room, and dropped his bag on the floor. Carter wasn't sure how much he had heard, or if he had heard anything at all, but he wordlessly strode towards her and pulled her into a hug.

Carter had not cried once after John died. She had gotten spectacularly drunk with Finch and Zoe, she had a panic attack in her precinct, she had been shot at by cyber terrorists, detained by government agents, and she had spoken to a so called God.

But she hadn’t cried. 

She finally allowed herself to.

 

*

 

Carter celebrated the removal of her sling by arriving at the library with a steaming paper cup in each hand. Finch gave her a small smile.

“Sencha, right? One sugar.” 

“Thank you,” said Finch, accepting the cup. “I’m glad you’re here, actually. I was about to call you.”

“Do we have a number?” asked Carter, glancing at the glass board.

“No… but there is a matter I wished to discuss with you.” Finch gestured to the seat opposite him. “Your salary.”

Carter blinked.

“What.”

“I paid John,” said Finch very matter-of-factly. “If you’re going to do his job you should receive the same payment.”

Carter finally found her voice.

“Back up,” she said slowly. “How much exactly did you pay him?”

Finch hesitated before speaking.

“Fifteen thousand.”

“Fifteen thousand  _a month_?” cried Carter, mildly horrified.

Finch winced slightly.

“A week.”

“ _Finch!_ ” 

“You don’t have an issue being employed as a vigilante but you object to being paid for it?” he teased.

The answer to that question was, if Carter was perfectly honest with herself, yes. There was a laughably long list of laws she had broken since meeting John Reese that would most likely result in her spending the rest of her life in Rikers avoiding the criminals and corrupt cops she sent there.

But she hadn’t been  _paid_  to do it.

She knew John Reese well enough to know what he had done with all that money. She was certain the homeless shelters, food banks, crisis centres and veteran centres of New York had received many large donations in the past three years. She was also certain that Finch would still be paying every cent.

Before she could come up with an argument that wasn’t completely irrational, Finch spoke up.

“A compromise. I’ll only pay you enough to cover your living expenses,” said Finch, “but I’ll cover Taylor’s college. Fees, accommodation, text books... anything he needs.”

Finch had said the magic words and, judging from the somewhat smug look on his face, he knew it. Carter pursed her lips.

“Fine,” she muttered.

“It’s a lovely day,” said Finch brightly. “Bear could do with a walk.”

The dog’s ears perked up at the word ‘walk’. Carter rolled her eyes and followed them out.

 

*

 

It was about seven o’clock in the morning when Carter finally returned to the library. Apparently her new job had as hectic a sleep schedule as her old one. Her mood was sour (the perpetrator today had been frustrating on top of homicidal) but the library always made her feel at ease. It reminded her of her more carefree days at law school for one, and for another, Finch and Bear made excellent company.

“Good morning, Jocelyn,” said Finch brightly.

Carter stopped dead in her tracks and gave Finch a  _look._

“Are you my Mom?” she asked dryly.

Finch looked up from his computer and stared, uncomprehending for moment. 

“Not that I’m aware of,” he said finally.

“Then you cannot call me Jocelyn,  _Harry_.”

Finch cringed.

"Please, don't call me that.”

“Only Root gets to call you Harry, huh?”

It was Finch’s turn to give  _her_  a look. Carter noted that Root and Finch had both apparently made a silent agreement to call each other by names that pissed the other off.

“How is Ms Towers?” asked Finch.

“She’s safe,” said Carter. “Fusco has her boyfriend in holding. But my favourite jacket is ruined.”

The leather had been thick enough to protect her from Andrew Matherson’s knife (before she had knocked him out cold with a swift punch) but the sleeve now had a noticeable new hole.

 She  _loved_  that jacket.

“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” said Finch. “I’ll purchase you a new one.”

Carter thought of all the bar fights, mob shoot outs and miscellaneous mayhem that John had ran head first into, and the impeccable suit he wore every time. It hadn't occurred to her that Finch was constantly buying new ones.

“How many suits did John go through?” asked Carter, after a moment’s hesitation.

“A fair number,” said Finch, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Ms Shaw was very adamant that she would only wear practical clothing.”

“She threaten to shoot you when you brought it up?” guessed Carter.                                                                                                                                 

“She asked if a Colombian necktie would match the attire I was wearing at the time,” he replied wryly. 

Carter let out a genuine laugh for what felt like the first time in weeks. Even Finch managed a quiet chuckle. 

“You should get some rest,” he said. “I will inform you if we have a new number.”

 

*

 

Shaw turned up at the library a week later with a large gash across her upper arm (that had been carefully cleaned and stitched) and a dark bruise on her cheek. Carter and Finch stared at her in shock.

“Simmons is in Riker’s infirmary,” said Shaw casually. “Dropped him off at the eighth with three broken ribs, couple of gunshot wounds, dislocated shoulder and a shattered kneecap. Hey Joss.” 

Carter found her voice.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered.

“It’s nothing,” said Shaw dismissively. “I already patched it up.”

Carter didn’t speak again. Shaw shuffled uncomfortably.

“Are you mad because I didn’t shoot the prick?” she asked. “Because I did shoot Simmons a little.”

Carter crossed the room in three strides and pulled Shaw into a hug. Shaw’s arms hung awkwardly at her sides. 

“Err… what are you doing?” asked Shaw.

Carter held her a little tighter.

“Sorry,” she muttered into her shoulder. “Give me a minute.”

Shaw rolled her eyes and gave Carter a pat on the back. Carter cleared her throat and abruptly let her friend go.

Shaw turned to Finch. He no longer looked shocked and his expression was unreadable.

“I’m glad you’ve returned safely, Ms Shaw,” he said softly.

“Whatever,” said Shaw shortly. “Where’s Root?”

“I let her out of the Faraday cage.”

“Well, that was fucking stupid,” said Shaw dryly.

"She saved our lives,” said Finch. “And I’m afraid we’ll need her assistance in the coming months.”

The ex-operatives’ eyes narrowed dangerously.

"What shitstorm have you got us dragged into now, Finch?”

“Decima is trying to build another machine,” said Carter conversationally, “and your old boss nearly had us killed.”

Shaw looked mildly alarmed for the first time since Carter had met her.

“You’ve met Control?”

“She’s  _delightful_ ,” said Carter brightly.

“Shit. Okay,” muttered Shaw. “So… you’re joining the team full time?”

Carter nodded. 

“Listen,” said Shaw, putting up her hands defensively. “I know you’re not helpless or anything, but-”

“I’m not a CIA trained operative,” finished Carter.

“A little extra training can’t hurt,” said Shaw with unprecedented tact. “And ISA operatives are way more badass than the CIA. Let’s go punch things later.”

Carter grinned.

“Sounds splendid,” said Finch with no small amount of sarcasm. “We have a new number. You’ll both need evening attire.”

 

*

 

Finch found Carter a sleek black dress with pockets big enough to conceal her gun and her phone. She tried not to sound too impressed with it.

She was packing an extra magazine in her purse and Finch had just finished fixing his bow tie when Shaw returned to the library. She had a beautiful white dress and the same grumpy expression Carter had seen on her Great Aunt Bess’ old cat when forced into a sweater. 

“Nice,” said Carter, hiding a smile. 

Shaw gave her an unamused look and took out her purse. 

“I got you something on my field trip,” she said gruffly.

Carter let out a gasp of delight when Shaw pulled out a Beretta Nano.

“Happy birthday,” said Shaw dully. “Whenever the hell that is.” 

Finch shook his head, utterly bemused.

 

*

 

Jiao Lin scooped up Kai in her arms and peppered her face with kisses. Carter watched the reunion with a satisfied smile.

“That was fun,” said Shaw. “We should do that more often.”

Carter raised an eyebrow.

“Grand larceny?”

“As if you didn't enjoy it.”

 

*

 

“I’ll get the bomb,” said Shaw. “Cover me?”

Carter nodded and cleared a path for Shaw to get to the terrified boy.

“I’m a bona fide badass, kid,” said Shaw, a little robotically. “I can get you out of here in one piece. You just keep still.”

The boy, Aaron, trembled.

“I’m s-scared…”

“Well, that is a big ass bomb.”

Aaron whimpered. Carter glared at the ceiling in frustration, before giving him a brief, warm smile over her shoulder.

"You’ll be just fine, sweetheart,” Carter said as gently as she could while shooting at another man’s kneecaps. “I promise.”

What Shaw lacked in bedside manner, she made up for with steady hands and a level head. Shaw deftly defused the bomb and cut the boy loose, just as Carter brought down the last of his kidnappers.

"All set, kid,” said Shaw. “Let’s get you home.”

Aaron promptly burst into tears of relief and wrapped himself around Shaw’s middle. Shaw wriggled.

“Aww,” grinned Carter.

“I hate you,” scowled Shaw.

 

*

 

Root was still on the balcony, looking at the city with an uncharacteristically pensive look on her face. She seemed a little more like Sam Groves than Root and Carter found that, absurdly, she preferred the overconfident, deadly kindergarten teacher. It somehow made the situation seem less dire.

“Fusco is taking Cyrus home,” said Carter. “How’s the war wound?”

“Sameen took good care of me,” smiled Root.

“You didn’t tell Cyrus.”

 Root immediately lost her smile.

“It would have done him more harm than good,” she said quietly. 

“Fair enough,” responded Carter. “It’s hard to trust people again after something like that. It makes you want to take on the world alone.”

Root shot Carter a pointed, unimpressed look. Carter met her gaze, unfazed. She hadn’t been going for the subtle interrogation.

“I’m not alone, Joss,” said Root.

Her tone made Carter’s patience dwindle. She spoke with the same blind devotion teenage Carter had heard from her mother’s church friends.

“The Machine isn’t infallible,” said Carter sharply. “You almost died today.  _Shaw_  almost died today.”

Root shook her head.

“The Machine wouldn’t have let that happen,” said Root vehemently. “Shaw is one of Her agents. Shaw’s  _important_.”

“ _So was John!”_

Root’s shoulders slumped and she said nothing. Carter’s anger deflated a little at that.

“Just… just ask your friend to try and keep us in the loop next time,” she muttered. “If it can.” 

“You’ve spoken to Her before.” 

“I had just finished half a whiskey bottle,” scoffed Carter. “Everyone talks to God when they’re that drunk.”

God rarely spoke back, but that was beside the point.

“Do you still trust people?” asked Root suddenly. “After everything that happened?” 

Carter thought of ringing pay phones and police sirens, once familiar noises that now filled her with dread. She thought of the hundreds of Peter Arndts she had encountered. She thought of Alonzo Quinn giving Sandra Beecher a warm, seemingly genuine embrace at Cal’s funeral. She thought of the ruthless Control, the spiteful Kara Stanton and the ominous, faceless Mr Greer. She thought of Patrick Simmons.

Carter thought of the sociopath who decided to risk her life to help people and the billionaire who spent his days playing Batman. She thought of the fixer with a heart of gold and the corrupt cop who was so fiercely loyal and protective of them. She thought of a government hit man with kind blue eyes. She thought of Taylor.

“Sometimes,” was as honest an answer as Carter could give. 

“She keeps telling me humanity is worth saving,” said Root. “I can’t see it.” 

Carter turned to look at the city. A million tiny lights lit up the skyline and the dark hid all of New York’s ugly greys and browns.

“The Machine sees more than we do,” she said softly. “Maybe she sees what we can’t.”

“Maybe.”

 

*

 

Shaw had a knack for illegal street racing. Carter apparently had ‘police’ written on her forehead and Finch turned out to be a skilled mechanic, so she got to play mission control for a change while he went into the field.

When their number and his would be killer were safely in handcuffs and their cars were impounded, Finch returned to the library. He was still wearing his jeans and t-shirt disguise, and Carter bit back a laugh.

“You’ve got grease everywhere,” she grinned, tossing him a towel. “Ruined your jeans.”

Finch grimaced and wiped black smudges from his face.

“I’ll bear the loss as best I can,” he said dryly. “At least Ms Shaw enjoyed herself.”

Finch, Carter suspected, had enjoyed himself far more than he let on. 

“How did you know so much about cars?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

Carter expected a cryptic response or a witty deflection. Finch didn’t respond immediately.

“I fixed engines as a child,” he said. 

Carter raised an eyebrow. Finch ignored the look she was giving him and continued.

“No siblings. Quiet town. I had a great deal of time to myself.”

“You… you told me you had brothers,” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “Who taught you to swim?”                                                                           

“In a manner of speaking,” said Finch with a smile. “My first year of college, my friends decided I had spent too much of the year shut up in the library. They rather forcibly took me to the peer and threw me off it. Nathan and Arthur had to rescue me a few times, but I quite enjoyed myself. I quite miss it actually.”

Carter had never seen him speak so candidly before. She wasn’t sure why a man as guarded as Finch was telling her this. (A bitter, traitorous part of her wondered if he was only telling her this because he didn't get a chance to tell John Reese, but she buried it back.)  She couldn’t imagine that swimming was particularly easy for a man with Finch’s injuries. 

“Can I ask you what happened?” she asked tentatively.

Finch froze and Carter immediately regretted asking.

“I will tell you one day,” he said quietly.

“You don’t have to,” said Carter rapidly. “I shouldn’t have-”

“I’d like to.” 

Carter smiled.

“There’s a clean suit on your chair,” she said. “Ironed shirt and everything.”

Finch beamed at her. Carter couldn’t help laughing at the overjoyed look on his face.

 

*

 

“Happy New Year, Sameen,” said Fusco, before heading off.

Carter gave Fusco a smile before he left and took a seat by Shaw’s side.

“One more,” said Carter to the bartender. 

Carter and Shaw sat in comfortable silence, sipping champagne. It reminded Carter of the few times she had spent out with Shaw and Zoe, and she felt completely at ease for this first time in months.

“I didn’t know you spoke Arabic,” said Shaw finally.

Carter had learned the language out of necessity in Iraq. There were translators, but in an interrogation setting there were nuances you needed to hear for yourself. Trust was difficult to cultivate behind a translator.

But even outside her job, she had loved the sound of the language. The locals were less frightened and more likely to smile if you spoke in Arabic.

“I was an interrogator in Iraq,” said Carter. “My Arabic is decent. My Farsi is... sketchy.”

“Maman spoke Farsi and Arabic at home,” said Shaw with a shrug. “She figured it would be useful if I was multilingual. Work took me to the middle east less than you’d expect but it  _was_  handy.” 

Carter knew that Shaw’s father had died but she rarely brought up her mother.

"Where is she now?”

“Maman is better at pretending to give a fuck than I am, so she works at New York General.”

“When…when was the last time you spoke to her?” asked Carter delicately.

“She knows I’m not dead, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Shaw bluntly. “She doesn’t expect a phone call every week.”

Carter briefly remembered her mother firmly but gently giving her an earful after a month of not speaking before she could divorce Paul.

“You’re her  _daughter_ ,” she said.

Shaw shook her head. 

“I take after Maman. We aren’t sentimental,” she said. “Dad cared enough for all three of us.”

Carter pictured a tiny, old Persian woman with an angry scowl, and harsh but strangely comforting words. She chuckled quietly and finished her drink.

 

*

 

Shaw growled and shoved the year book into Carter’s hands.

“We…we may run into problems with your cover identity, Ms Carter,” said Finch through her earpiece. “This particular class was… somewhat lacking in diversity.”

Carter raised an eyebrow, flicked through the book and found Wanda Terrance in the school sports section. Lacrosse, basketball and  _weightlifting_. 

“Finch,” she said slowly. “This girl was over six foot tall… and could probably lift a car off someone without the adrenaline rush.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

 “Go as Betty Ross’ plus one instead,” said Shaw with a shrug.

“Perfect. I've edited the guest list. You're registered as Joss Grant.”

Carter frowned slightly at the name change but didn't remark on it.

"Betty could do worse,” said Carter. “What have we got on our new number?”

 

*

 

“…plus one?”

“For fuck’s sake, Root… we’re being shot at by Vigilance,” snapped Shaw. “Now is not the time.”

Carter bit back a laugh and kept shooting. Root was impressive enough. Shaw could do worse.

 

*

 

She sat down at the kitchen counter with Taylor. An intimidatingly large tub of choc-chip ice cream lay between them but, between Decima and Taylor’s never-ending cascade of homework, Carter suspected they might finish it.

“How’s the English essay going?” asked Carter.

“I need more ice cream to answer that question,” muttered Taylor. “I don't think any of the authors on the school reading list know how to write anything  _happy_.”

“I’ll ask Finch if he has any good books for you,” said Carter, with a quiet laugh.

Taylor frowned slightly and poked at the ice cream in his bowl. A frown formed on Carter’s face to match her son’s. 

“Do you… do you like working with him?” he asked hesitantly.

“I do,” answered Carter softly. “Are  _you_  okay with it?”

Taylor shrugged, his eyes fixed on his bowl.

“You're safer with Finch than you were as a cop,” he said. “I know you had a rough few months, but you seem a little happier now.”

“ _But?_ ” she prodded.

Taylor finally looked up from his ice cream.

“I don’t even know what you and Finch really  _do_ ,” he admitted.

Carter remembered how evasive she had been after her demotion. How hard she had tried to avoid bringing up anything to do with HR or how she never told Taylor where she was going or what she was doing. But Taylor always picked up on more than she intended. He had been worried… and he had been furious and panicked after she had been shot.

She didn’t want it to be like that again.

“Do you… do you have any questions?” she asked.

“Could you answer them if I did?” he asked dryly.

She tried very hard to think of what she could tell Taylor that wouldn’t put him in the firing line of Decima, Vigilance or the ISA. The list was a short one. 

“I can tell you what I can,” said Carter finally, her shoulders sagging.

But Taylor only shook his head and turned his attention back to his ice cream.

“I trust you, Mom.”

She wondered if the Machine felt the weight of Root’s implicit trust. She wondered if it scared the Machine as much as it did her.

                                                               

*

 

Shaw returned to the safe house and found Carter and Finch giving her identical looks of horror and reproach. 

“Alright, let’s hear it,” Shaw said lightly.

“You shot at a Congressman!” they shouted in unison.

“… _completely_  irresponsible…”

“…could have been  _killed_ …”

“… _not_  how we do things…”

“…of all the  _reckless_ -”

Shaw put up her hand and Carter and Finch fell silent.

“First of all… neither of you gets to call me reckless,” said Shaw calmly. “Carter…you singlehandedly started a gang war and stole a thirteen million dollar shipment of drugs. Finch… you built an omniscient AI when there is  _literally_  an entire subgenre of science fiction about why that is a terrible idea.”

Finch looked away pointedly. Carter grimaced and privately decided that Shaw was very annoying when she was right.

“Secondly… now McCourt needs the secret service to protect him,” continued Shaw, “which we can now infiltrate. You’re welcome.”

“Alright, Ms Shaw,” said Finch, through gritted teeth. “What do you propose?”

 

*

 

Carter shook her head in confusion. Artificial intelligences, government surveillance, and cyber terrorists were things beyond her expertise.

But this was something a homicide detective should understand.

“Decima needs McCourt alive,” frowned Carter. “Who’s got motive to kill this guy?” 

Shaw suddenly became very quiet and very still.

“We do,” she said calmly “We kill McCourt, we stop Samaritan.”


	2. Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Someone needs to tell Big Mac to pick better jobs,” scowled Shaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologise for the Machine's simulations in advance.

Shaw and Finch argued. Carter tried to listen but the same sickening dizziness that struck her at the eighth precinct threatened to overwhelm her once more. She leaned heavily against the wall and forced herself to  _breathe_.

Shaw was too angry to notice. Finch was too horrified.

“Our purpose has always been constant… to save lives,” hissed Finch. “If that's changed somehow, if we're in a place now where the Machine is asking us to commit  _murder_... that's a place I can't go. I'm afraid this is where I get off.”

Carter looked up sharply because they  _needed_  Finch. Shaw’s grip on her gun tightened and Carter wanted to tear it out of her hands.

“It's not a kill order,” snarled Shaw. “If your Machine just wanted McCourt dead, it would have asked Root to do it. It wants us to choose.”

“It shouldn't have asked at all!” cried Finch. “This is not what I programmed it for!”

Carter shook her head. They shouldn’t even be having this conversation. What were they  _doing?_ Why were they even _talking_ about this?

“We have to go,” said Carter. “We have to leave McCourt here and go.”

Shaw slammed her fist against the wall. Finch jumped but Carter remained still. When Shaw spoke again, she sounded strangely calm.

“What happens when Samaritan goes online?”

Carter knew what would happen. She knew but she couldn't…  _they couldn't_...

“We're dead, that's what,” continued Shaw. “All of us come down with lead poisoning and Decima takes over the world.  _Is that what you want?”_

“We can't just  _murder_  a Congressman!” cried Carter.

“I don't remember either of you protesting when you thought I was going to kill Simmons,” said Shaw.

Carter recoiled but Finch’s features twisted into something cold and furious. She hated that look on him.

“You disappeared for a month and ceased all communication,” he said sharply. “I’m not sure what you expected us to do.”

“You telling me that you couldn't really reach me?” asked Shaw. “If you really tried?”

Carter had nothing to say to that. She strode towards the door, and Finch and Shaw wordlessly followed her out.

 

*

 

Shaw’s anger was forgotten by the time they got back to New York, despite her injured leg. She leaned on Carter heavily and stated flatly that Finch owed her a steak. Finch didn't respond.

Carter turned to check on him and saw a sea of unfamiliar faces instead.

“Finch?” she called, panic creeping into her voice. “ _Finch!_ ”

“He’s gone,” said Shaw dully. “Wimp.”

Shaw sat down gingerly on a bench. Carter immediately searched for the nearest camera. She found one by the street crossing.

“Why?” she asked loudly, ignoring the fleeting glances of people passing by.

Her phone didn’t ring. There was no text. Root’s so called God didn’t want to speak to her. Carter‘s temper flared. She had bent and broken all the rules since she had met John Reese, but this was too far. Too much.

“The silent treatment, huh?” she snarled. "What the  _hell_ were you thinking?"

“The tourists are beginning to stare, Carter,” said Shaw, forcing her words through a toothy grimace. “We can argue with SkyNET later.”

“No,” snapped Carter. “It doesn’t get to pull shit like that without an explanation.”

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Carter read her text with trembling hands.

 

PROTECT

 

Her shoulders slumped. Suddenly Carter knew why Finch was so frightened of his creation. The man thought that building an AI to spy on every human being on the planet was a perfectly reasonable response to a potential terrorist threat. He hired so called monsters that the government deemed too dangerous to live to help him play superhero.

This damn Machine was  _Finch_  all over again.

“You can't do that,” she said shakily. “You can't ask that of us.”

 

I DID NOT KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO.

CHANCE OF ASSET SURVIVAL MINIMAL.

 

Carter wordlessly showed Shaw the text. The ex-agent tilted her head at the camera.

“Optimistic fucker, aren’t you?” said Shaw with deceptive calm.

The Machine didn't answer. A pay phone on the opposite side of the crossing rang loudly. Carter tensed briefly, but went to answer it.

They had a new number.

 

*

 

The colour had flooded from Root’s cheeks and the overconfident light-heartedness had left her features completely. Carter dreaded to think what the Machine was saying to her.

“We have to go,” whispered Root. “Samaritan is targeting Grace Hendricks.”

“Who the hell is that?” asked Shaw flatly.

Root met Carter’s gaze, her eyes large and glistening. This wasn’t the false sympathy that Carter had seen slip easily from the young woman’s lips. She was genuinely  _gutted._

“Harold was going to  _marry_  her.”

Fear made way for cold anger. Carter’s hand strayed to her gun and when she spoke, her words were  _ice_.

“ _Where is she?_ ”

 

*

 

Finch was gone again. Dragged away by Decima agents and Carter felt sick.  _John would have saved him... John wouldn't have let any of this happen..._

Grace was unharmed but exhausted. Greer was many things, but apparently he was a man of his word. She leaned heavily against the passenger side door in silence, her eyes half closed.

“Who was that man on the bridge?” asked Grace suddenly.

Carter couldn’t speak, so Fusco answered instead. His hands were clenched on the steering wheel.

“A friend,” he said softly.

Grace caught Carter’s eye. Carter shrunk in her seat.

“Will you save him?” she asked quietly.

Grace knew. Grace knew it was Finch the second he had touched her. Or maybe a part of her had always known.

Either way, none of this was fair.

“I promise,” whispered Carter.

Grace nodded and didn’t say anything for the rest of the drive.

 

*

 

Jeremy Lambert coughed and it felt like his chest was on fire. Another asset pushed him down and put pressure on the wound.

“Lay still, Mr Lambert,” said Greer with his usual calm. “An ambulance is on its way.”

 _Splendid,_  Lambert wanted to say. He managed a cocky grin. It didn’t hurt too much to smile.

“You’re very lucky,” continued Greer. “Another half inch to the left and you would have missed the birth of our new world. Mr Finch’s associates rarely aim to kill but our mystery woman certainly made an exception for you.”

She certainly had. Parker and Rolands were dead. Erikson was screaming and clutching his knee. Giles had been mauled by a  _dog_. Lambert couldn’t help be impressed. Judging by the look of mingled amusement and annoyance on his face, so was Greer.

“It’s curious,” he said softly. “I pride myself on knowing every former intelligence operative and mercenary in this country, but this woman’s identity eludes me.”

Lambert would have shrugged if he could.

It was irrelevant. Samaritan will find them soon enough.            

 

*

 

Root relayed the Machine’s message about Pandora’s Box. It was almost hopeful, but Carter could barely hear her talking.

“The Machine has given you a new identity,” said Root. “But for this to work... Jocelyn Carter has to die.”

“Carter” was the only one of them who wasn’t a ghost. She was the only one with family. She was the only one of them who wasn’t untouchable. “Carter” could not just disappear like Finch, Shaw and Root.

“How long do I have?” said Carter dully.

Root hesitated.

“It’s best if you don't see Taylor.”

Carter thought of sad, lonely Grace Hendricks and wanted to scream. Scream at Root until she understood what she was asking.

Finch caught her hand and pressed it briefly.

“Taylor is capable of discretion,” he said firmly. “How long does she have until Samaritan comes online?”

“30 minutes,” said Root softly.

Finch turned to face her. He had a layer of sweat on his brow and he was bleeding through his white silk shirt.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Go.”

Carter grabbed her envelope and ran.

 

*

 

Carter broke every speed limit from the library to Paul’s house and made it in just under eight minutes. She used the key Paul had given her and let herself in. Taylor was alone, sitting at the dining table, surrounded by textbooks and homework. He looked up at her in surprise and got to his feet.

“ _Mom?_ ”

Carter stood there, momentarily stunned. The full gravity of what she was about to do struck her like a blow and suddenly she couldn't  _speak_ …

“Mom, what’s wrong?” asked Taylor.

“Give me your phone,” she said finally.

Carter took the phone from her son, took out the battery and crushed it underfoot. Taylor was too shocked to even give a token protest.

“I need you to report me missing.”

It was as if she was hearing herself from a great distance or under water. If she stopped talking, she’d never be able to  _leave_ …

Taylor’s face wrinkled into the same look of confusion she had seen so often as he grew up.

“What?”

“Wait 24 hours and call Lionel.”

Her words began to register and Taylor’s confusion made way for other emotions. Panic. Fear.

“Mom... Mom,  _why_...?”

“I need to keep you safe,” whispered Carter. “I need to go.”

She reach out for her son but he pulled away sharply.

“ _No!_ ” 

“Taylor-”

“I can come with you!" cried Taylor. “I can  _help!_ ”

God help her, she should have shot McCourt. Finch would have hated her, John would have been ashamed and she would never be able to live with herself… but anything would have been better than this.

She caught her son’s face in her hands. He was shaking as much as she was and trying (and failing) not to cry.

“No, baby,” said Carter shakily. “No, you can’t. Even if I wanted you to.”

Carter felt hot tears running down her own cheeks but forced herself to keep speaking.  _They didn’t have enough time…_

“Keep your head down,” she said rapidly. “Don't draw attention. Don't say anything over the phone, on the computer or in front of a camera that could get you in trouble. Any camera. Don't even talk about me.”

“Please tell me what's going on,” said Taylor, suddenly sounding terribly, terribly young.

“I c-can't,” choked Carter. “Taylor,  _I'm so sorry_.”

Taylor stood there trembling for a moment, and then pulled Carter into a hug that was too tight. She returned it fiercely, memorising every moment of it. He moved away slightly to look at her. He took a deep breath and forced himself to at least look calm. Carter’s heart ached at the sight. He was far too much like Paul. Far too much like  _her_.

“Harold has your back?” asked Taylor quietly.

“Always.”

“Tell him to be careful too.”

_Her wonderful, brave boy…_

Carter pulled out a note from her pocket and pressed it into Taylor’s palm.

“Give this to your father,” she murmured. “Tell him to burn it after he reads it.”

Taylor nodded. His stoic façade faltered when Carter glanced at the clock.

“I love you, Mom,” he said.

“I love you too,” she said softly. “So much.”

Carter tore herself away and didn't look back.

 

*

 

She stopped sobbing by the time she reached Elias’ base of operations. Scarface looked taken aback at her appearance but took her to see his boss without a word. She was grateful for that.

“You want me to pretend to murder you?” repeated Elias slowly.

“Yes,” said Carter dully. “I don’t have much time.”

Elias’ surprise turned to pity.

“You would never leave your son willingly.”

“No,” said Carter. “I wouldn’t.”

“What have you got yourself into, Joss?” asked Elias.

“The less you know, the better.” She managed to keep her voice steady. She wasn’t sure  _how_. “Knowledge isn’t power in this situation... but if that changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Government? CIA?”

Carter let out a bitter laugh. She remembered when Mark Snow had been the greatest of her worries. When Kara Stanton had made her furious and desperate and miserable, and had nearly taken away what she held dear.

Nearly.

“I still owe you that favour, I suppose,” said Elias finally. “Anthony… I'm afraid the former Detective Carter has outgrown her usefulness. See to it she's dealt with.”

 

*

 

Scarface took a pint of her blood, and poured it around the warehouse and over one of his knives.

“Make sure you get the splatter right,” muttered Carter. But she wasn’t “Carter” anymore.

“I know how to stage a mafia hit, Joss,” said Scarface gently. “I've done the real thing enough times.”

“I'm going to forget I heard that.”

Scarface frowned at his handiwork and cut the back of his hand with the bloody knife. Carter’s eyes widened.

“What are you-”

“Making it look good,” said Scarface with a grin. “My DNA is on enough crime scenes… and let’s face it… you would have kicked my ass.”

She almost laughed but couldn’t quite manage it. Scarface made an awkward arm motion, as though he was about to pat her on the back but thought better of it.

“We'll keep an eye on the kid for you,” he said a little awkwardly. “Discretely. We won’t scare him or anything.”

She managed a grateful smile before slipping away.

 

*

 

She opened her envelope. There was small sum of money, a handwritten notebook with details of her new life, a set of keys and identification.

She read the name on the license and laughed. The Machine knew her too well. It knew that unlike Finch and John who could shed their names like snakeskin, she clung to names and treasured them. She had kept “Carter” ten years after she had divorced Paul.

“Reese” would have been too obvious.

 

*

 

Marcus Peterson was a large, heavily built man who seemed intimidating until he opened his mouth to speak. He paid his staff as well as he was able and let his youngest waitress study in a quiet booth after her shift with a free bowl of fries.

He hired Jocelyn Warren without references and without question.

It was dull, thankless work, but when it came to her employer, Warren could do worse.

“Listen, Joss,” said Marcus, after her third shift. “I know what someone running looks like.”

Warren stiffened but Marcus gave her a reassuring smile.

“If you need me to beat him up, I will,” he said firmly. “You're too nice a lady.”

She doubted Marcus knew how to throw a decent punch but she appreciated the sentiment and smiled despite herself.

“Thanks,” she said warmly.

 

*

 

She kept a loaded gun on her bedside table and one of Shaw’s knives in her purse. She wanted to keep another in her ankle holster but Samaritan would  _see_.

Joss Warren didn't have a gun license. A middle aged waitress has no need for a gun or knives. Joss Carter’s gun stayed in the apartment.

 

*

 

The reason the Machine had decided to make Jocelyn Warren a waitress became apparent three months later.

After telling a very flustered and terrified Marcus that she could handle the order on her own, she strode purposefully up to Carl Elias and Anthony Marconi. Elias raised an eyebrow at the striped uniform.

“Joss.”

“ _Carl_ ,” she responded dryly. “What can I get you?”

“My mother was a waitress,” said Elias. “She enjoyed her job. But this... this is ridiculous.”

“The soup of the day is good,” responded Warren cheerfully.

“Pumpkin?” frowned Elias.

“Barley and beef.”

“I'll take it.” Elias continued to study ‘Joss Warren’ from over his menu. “Aren't you... bored?”

“Unbelievably so,” said Warren brightly. “You still take cream with your coffee?”

“Yes, please. How long before you're desperate enough to accept a job offer?”

“If Harold doesn't show up in another week, I'll get back to you,” she turned to Elias' suddenly very pale enforcer. “What do you want?”

Scarface was apparently too horrified to speak.

“Use your words, Tony.”

When he still didn’t say anything, Warren quickly lost patience.

“Order something or this coffee is going over your head,” she said flatly.

“Fries,” Scarface choked out. “Please.”

Warren rolled her eyes and turned back to Elias.

“You’re not extorting a protection fee from these people, are you?”

Elias’ mouth twitched into a smile.

“Marcus gets a discount in exchange for the use of his backroom.”

“Made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, huh?” said Warren, with an angry scowl.

“He's very close to Brotherhood territory,” said Elias. “He needs protection… and even if he misses a payment or two, I'm willing to make an exception for you.”

Warren was somewhat mollified by that. She poured out a cup of coffee for Elias and left him a small jug of hot cream.

“From what I hear, the Brotherhood doesn’t exactly respect things like territory,” she said.

A flicker of apprehension crossed Elias’ features and Carter froze. Elias was not a man easily rattled.

“You hear correctly,” said Elias quietly. “I’d be careful walking home, Joss.”

Warren had apparently taken too long to take the order, because Marcus hurried over in a panic.

“Is everything alright, Mr Elias?” he asked, an octave higher than strictly necessary.

Elias chuckled quietly.

“Don't look so alarmed, Marcus,” he said with a reassuring smile. “Joss and I are just old friends.”

Marcus rushed up to her as she went to collect the Mafia Don’s soup and his enforcer’s fries.

“Is  _Carl Elias_  the evil boyfriend you're running from?” he whispered.

She tried and failed to suppress a rather undignified snort of amusement. Marcus sagged visibly with relief.

 

*

 

She found him the next day.

He was sitting at a booth by the window, in a brown suit drabber than anything she had ever seen him in. His eyes were red from lack of sleep and his movements were stiffer.

But he was  _alive_.

“What can I get you?” asked Carter softly.

His look of surprise at seeing her was quickly replaced with a relieved smile.

“Eggs benedict, please Miss...”

“Joss Warren.”

Finch smiled even wider at the name that Carter hadn’t quite warmed to yet. He seemed to think it fitting at least.

“Harold Whistler.”

 

*

 

Carter and Shaw left the motivational talk somewhat less motivated than when they walked in. Shaw gave her an appraising look.

“You're a waitress,” said Shaw distastefully.

“You're in retail,” replied Carter.

“Someone needs to tell Big Mac to pick better jobs,” scowled Shaw.

“Stereotypes are beneath notice,” said Carter with a grimace. “Not to mention the entire NYPD is out looking for Joss Carter.”

They were looking in the Hudson River, but that was beside the point. Joss Warren had a fringe, wore less make up and hunched her shoulders in a way Joss Carter never did, but she doubted that would be enough to hide her completely.

“I  _know_  that,” said Shaw in a tone that sounded like a teenager whining.  “But if this keeps up, Sameen Grey will be arrested for homicide.”

Carter grinned at her friend fondly.

“I missed you, Sameen.”

 

*

 

She found Finch by the chessboards in the park. Bear jumped up on Carter’s lap and licked her face in a way that was not appropriate for a highly trained attack dog but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care.

“ _Gaan liggen_ ,” scolded Finch.

Bear whined and lay down by Carter’s feet.

“We got a new number,” she said.

Finch, predictably, stiffened. He glanced around for cameras and found none this side of the park.

“The last number the Machine gave us was a kill order,” he muttered darkly.

“The last number we received was Grace Hendricks,” corrected Carter.

Finch didn’t respond. Carter pursed her lips.

“If you have a problem with your machine, you're the one who has to fix it,” she continued. “Giving it the silent treatment is helping no one.”

“I can't control it.”

“No, you can’t,” agreed Carter. “Have you tried  _talking_  to it?”

Finch blinked.

“What.”

“You think Taylor and I don't fight?” she asked, dropping her voice.

Finch shook his head.

“It's not a  _child_ ,” he said, biting back frustration. “No matter what Miss Groves says-”

“It’s gone past just being a computer,” said Carter quietly. “I think you know that.”

She could guess why the idea of the Machine being more than merely a very clever computer disturbed Finch so much. If she was honest, it frightened her a little too. She decided not to tell Finch as much.

“Even if I wished to communicate with it, there is very little I can do at present,” muttered Finch.

“So what, Finch?” asked Carter. “You’re giving up?”

“Our position is becoming increasingly untenable,” said Finch, and for the first time Carter could hear a tremor in his voice. “I have no desire to see you, Miss Shaw, Lieutenant Fusco or Miss Groves lose your lives on what is essentially a suicide mission.”

“I won’t stand by idly, Finch,” said Carter, getting to her feet. “I won’t let my son live in a world like this.”

“I’m not sure you have a choice in the matter.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But I’m not going to take it lying down. You do what you think is best.”

 

*

 

Carter was more than a little surprised when Finch walked into Marcus’ diner after Claire Mahoney had disappeared.

“Good morning, Professor,” said Marcus brightly, putting a pot of Sencha on Finch’s usual table. “A little bird told me you liked green tea with your eggs.”

Finch smiled for the first time since their argument in the park.

“Thank you, Mr Peterson,” said Finch.

Carter returned Finch’s smile and brought him his meal.

"Eggs Benedict,” she said.

He caught her hand before she could leave.

“Perhaps we won't survive Samaritan,” said Finch quietly. “But I can’t stand by and watch my friends risk themselves doing the work I started.”

Carter put her hand on her hip and threw Finch a  _look_. It wasn't quite the response to his impassioned speech that Finch expected, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Doom and gloom,” said Carter flatly. “Just like your damn computer.”

“It calculates probabilities,” Finch pointed out. “It isn't inherently pessimistic.”

“Yeah well… blind optimism is a great American tradition that I intend to live up to,” she said firmly. “We're going to win this, Finch.”

There was hope left in Pandora's Box, but what's the point if you don't hold onto it?

 

*

 

Fusco pulled at the sleeves of his new suit and shuffled on his feet, looking more uncomfortable than she had ever seen him.

“Stop fiddling,” scolded Carter through the earpiece.

“I look like a tool,” her partner muttered under his breath.

Fusco had struck out rather spectacularly on several occasions but Carter suspected it had more to do with a lack of confidence than anything else.

“You look fine, Fusco,” said Carter reassuringly.

Shaw snorted loudly. 

"No one asked you, Short Stack," Fusco scowled.

Shaw’s eyes narrowed dangerously at the new nickname.

“… the fuck did you just call me?”

Carter tried very hard not to laugh.

 

*

 

Carter dabbed at the cut on Fusco’s arm with disinfectant. His new suit was ruined but Fusco was relatively unharmed and their number was safe. This was probably something a paramedic could do but at least it was a chance to talk.

“Some day, huh?” said Fusco with a wince.

“Buy you a drink later?” asked Carter.

It was something they had always done together after a case. Even after one of the numbers. But Fusco shook his head.

“Can’t,” he grimaced. “I have an appointment with the department shrink.”

Carter looked up in alarm.

“Why?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

Fusco gave her a wry smile.

“My partner is missing, presumed dead,” he said. “They found her blood all over an abandoned warehouse by the Hudson.”

“Oh.”

Carter kept dabbing at the cut, more so than necessary, and deliberately avoided meeting Fusco’s eye. Fusco wasn't deterred.

“How are you holding up?” he asked gently.

Carter struggled to think of an answer to that. The first three months had been the worst. No Finch, no Shaw, no Fusco... just constant fear that Samaritan would see Joss Warren for the fake that she was.

It was better now. But not perfect.

“I miss my boy,” she said, as quietly as possible.

Joss Warren didn't have a son. Carter had counted three security cameras at the docks. They were out of sight of any of them but she was still too frightened to even say Taylor’s name out loud.

“Listen, Carter… if you want to fill me in on what's going on, you can,” said Fusco. “I can help.”

 _You asked John to help you_ , said an unpleasant voice at the back of her mind.

“It will put Lee in danger.”

Fusco paled at that. Carter remembered how HR had sent their men after Lee and shuddered. Never again.

“I can't just let you do this on your own,” muttered Fusco.

_Whether you like it or not, Joss…_

Carter smiled despite herself.

“I'm not alone.”

Fusco seemed satisfied by that. Carter took out one of the large bandages Shaw had packed for them and started wrapping it around Fusco’s arm.

“You guys have a hide out?” he asked suddenly. “Some kind of high tech Batman deal?”

“Finch built a secret door.”

Fusco grinned with childish delight.

 

 

*

 

Carter allowed herself to be taken into the black SUV. She wasn’t manhandled too much. Perhaps Dominic’s men had noticed the look of pure, unbridled fury on her face. Between Dominic targeting children and a corrupt cop throwing those same children to the wolves, Carter was in a foul mood.

But Link wasn't Dominic’s second in command for nothing. He met her gaze calmly and pointed his gun at her temple.

“I’ll make this simple,” said Carter in a tone that had once made hardened terrorists flinch. “Leave those kids alone or I will personally see to it that your little gang burns to the ground.”

“You and what army?”

As if on cue, Carter’s phone rang in her pocket. Link raised his gun a little higher, but didn’t stop her from answering. Carter left the threats to Shaw.

 

*

 

Professor Harold Whistler lived in a simple apartment building with a broken elevator that didn't look like it was going to be fixed in this lifetime. It crossed Carter's mind that giving a man with Finch’s injuries an apartment six floors up in a building with a broken elevator was a big oversight on the Machine’s part, but then she remembered that there were plenty of stairs in the library and that Finch seemed to prefer it that way.  _He'd climbed twenty one floors in minutes to save John from Kara Stanton…_

A low growl from inside told her that Bear knew someone was there. Finch opened the door slowly, but relaxed when he saw her face. ‘Casual’ Finch appeared to be Finch without his suit jacket and his sleeves rolled up. Carter couldn't say she was surprised.

Bear immediately went from vicious guard dog to overgrown puppy at the sight of her. Carter scratched behind his ears.

“Ms Warren,” said Finch. “This is a surprise.”

“Can we talk?” she asked.

Finch let her inside and very deliberately left Professor Whistler’s cell phone on the small table by the door. Carter did the same with Warren’s purse.

“We can,” said Finch when they reached the kitchen. “This building has very poor reception. Is something wrong?”

Carter suddenly felt a little ridiculous.

“It's not... It's not important.”

“I'll make tea,” said Finch, undeterred. “Or… coffee?”

"Coffee sounds great,” said Carter with a grateful smile.

Finch took out a small tin of instant coffee and gave Carter a pointed look.

“It’s silly,” she murmured. “I just want to be Joss Carter again. For an hour.”

“It takes some getting used to,” said Finch, turning on the kettle. “I’m not sure if it’s something you  _should_  get used to. Can you please get the mugs from the cupboard? On your right.”

The kitchen was fairly sparse and the mugs were very easy to find.

“Does anyone know your real name?” Carter asked, retrieving a blue and green mug.

A ghost of a smile formed on Finch’s face.

"I’m certain John figured it out,” he said. “The man had no concept of privacy.”

Carter laughed at that.

“You built something that would give  _Orwell_  nightmares.”

“I didn’t say I was any better,” said Finch with a quiet chuckle. “I haven't been Harold Evans since I was seventeen years old.”

Carter almost dropped the tea cups. Finch  _never_  slipped when it came to names. He looked almost as startled as she was. A dozen different explanations came to mind, but none that fit.

Finch gave Carter a look, silently begging her not to make a big deal out of it. She obliged.

 

 

*

 

Shaw burst into the subway with a large duffle bag looking far too happy for someone who apparently didn’t feel emotion. Carter and Finch stared.

“Stole some guns,” she said cheerfully. “Help me clean them?”

“From Dominic?” asked Carter.

“Nah,” said Shaw. “From some douchebag called Antoine.”

Finch coughed delicately and Carter smothered a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” frowned Shaw.

“Nothing,” said Finch, hiding a smile. “I have lecture. I’ll let you know if there’s a new number.”

Finch left with Bear, and Carter and Shaw got to work.

“These guns were too good for them,” said Shaw, admiring a ridiculously flashy submachine gun. “Poor, neglected babies…”

Carter finished cleaning a Sig Sauer and frowned slightly.

“Shaw...can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Are you any good with computers?”

Shaw looked up at that, frowning slightly.

“I can break into a few lower level government databases,” she said slowly “CDC... DEA... NYPD... why?”

Carter decided that she really, really did not want to know why Shaw had hacked the CDC. Or the DEA and NYPD for that matter.

“I'm up against a supercomputer,” said Carter. “I can use Microsoft Office… and Google. I can  _use_  government databases but breaking into them…”

"You asking for nerd lessons?”

“Sure, let's go with that.”

“Okay,” said Shaw brightly. “Let's get these puppies clean and then we can start.”

 

*

 

Walter Dang stopped gushing about the Man in the Suit the instant he noticed the stricken look on Carter’s face.

“You knew him,” said Walter gently.

Carter forced a smile.

“He saved my life.”

Walter’s expression softened at that.

“You were Selina Kyle.”

Carter laughed aloud and Walter looked a little startled.

“More like Commissioner Gordon,” she said dryly.

“I think… I think you're doing a good job, Miss Warren,” said Walter. “I think he’d be proud.”

Carter wasn’t sure if that was really true, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

 

*

 

Bear nearly bowled Finch to the ground in his excitement to see him again. Carter laughed while Finch half-heartedly scolded his dog.

“How was Hong Kong?” she asked.

“Productive,” said Finch as evasive as always. “What…?”

His eyes fell on a rather nice wooden chess set sitting on his desk.

“A present from Carl Elias.” Checked very carefully for listening or tracking devices. “He says you play.”

Finch frowned slightly.

“I’m not overly fond of the game,” he muttered.

“I know,” said Carter, taking out a packet of round pieces. “Root recommended checkers?”

Finch smiled.

“I’d like that.”

Some time later they sat down at Finch’s desk, a cup of Sencha in Finch’s hand and a latte in hers, and started to play.

“So,” said Carter, taking two of his pieces. “How was your date with Beth Bridges?”

Finch blushed like a middle schooler and Carter grinned broadly.

“What did Ms Groves tell you?” he scowled.

“Nothing more than the look on your face just did,” said Carter teasingly.

“Beth is an exceptional woman but I don't think a relationship based solely on deception will stand the test of time.”

Carter lost her smile. Finch, she knew, could lie as easily as he could breathe. Samaritan had to be stopped at any cost, but she felt a twinge of pity for Beth.

“Just what are you planning, Finch?” she asked quietly.

“I haven't quite ironed out the details,” said Finch. “Is Taylor alright?”

Carter fiddled with her cup and couldn’t quite meet Finch’s eye.

“Root spent a week as a substitute teacher in his school,” she said. “She passed him a message for me.”

She had also given Carter a picture from his yearbook photo. She kept it safely in the subway, rather than with her photograph of John. If Finch noticed, he said nothing about it.

“He's a senior now,” she murmured. “Worried about his exams. Wondering what to do with his life.”

“I'm sorry,” said Finch softly.

Carter shook her head.

“This was my choice, Finch.”

“Considering Ms Groves told you that the fate of the world depended on your participation, I don't think that qualifies as a choice.”

“It was still my choice,” said Carter firmly. “One I'd make again.”

Finch hesitated before touching her hand.

“I’ll get you back to your son, Jocelyn,” he said. “You have my word. Perhaps… perhaps Samaritan’s interest in Beth Bridges will be the key.”

Carter almost scolded Finch for calling her Jocelyn again, but she couldn’t quite manage it.

" _Thank you_."

 

*

 

Keeping tabs on Tomas Koroa was not an altogether unpleasant experience.

“Maybe infidelity is about to spank him on the ass,” grinned Shaw.

“Maybe,” agreed Carter with a grin to match.

Shaw let out a wistful sigh as she looked through the camera.

“I love my job,” said Shaw absently.

“The simple pleasure of helping those in need,” said Carter. “Shaw?”

“Mmmh?”

Carter frowned slightly, trying to think of the best way to phrase her question.

“Have you noticed that Root is a little... mopey?” she asked hesitantly.

Shaw lowered the camera and threw Carter a very pointed look.

"If you want to call dibs on Tomas just say so."

Carter scowled.

 

*

 

Root left the subway, disgustingly cheerful. Carter didn't need to be a Detective to figure out what put the taller woman in such a good mood.

Shaw was sitting at Finch's desk, cleaning her gun and absently humming ‘Deep in the Heart of Texas’ with an absurd smile on her face. It took physical effort on Carter’s part not to roll her eyes.

“You destroyed the virus, Shaw?”

“What virus?”

_Oh for God’s sake._

“The t-virus,” said Carter dryly.

“Oh,” muttered Shaw. “Yeah. We did.”

 

*

 

Carter wasn’t entirely sure if she should have been hearing this conversation but Fusco knew she was listening in. Unless he had forgotten.

“I’ve heard a few rumours about you, Fusco,” said Silva quietly. “Any truth to them?”

“Some,” admitted Fusco.

The IAB agent gave Fusco a surprised look.

“I met this guy,” he said. “He beat some sense into me and got me transferred to Carter’s precinct. She straightened me out. Gave me a second chance.”

“What happened to him?” asked Silva, looking down.

Carter’s breath caught in her throat.

“He died,” answered Fusco thickly. “Less than a year back.”

“You do them proud, Lionel,” said Silva firmly.

Carter privately decided she liked Dani Silva very much.

 

*

 

Fusco and Silva engaged in a mini battle to determine who would act as a human shield. It didn’t matter. Dominic loomed over them both.

“A former corrupt cop playing vigilante and trying to protect a woman from IAB,” sneered Dominic. “I thought I had seen everything.”

“Stranger things have happened,” answered Fusco breathlessly.

“As fascinating as you are, Lieutenant, I’m more interested in who you work for.”

Fusco stiffened.

“He’s a little shy,” he snarled. “Doesn’t share much with strangers.”

Fusco’s phone rang. He closed his eyes and bit back a groan of frustration.

“Oh, you gotta be  _kidding_  me.”

Dominic answered the call and put it on speaker.

“You have my associate and Ms Silva in your custody,” said Finch, his voice ringing out clearly in the silent classroom. “Both of them are under my protection.”

A flash of confusion crossed Silva’s features but she quickly managed to hide it. Dominic smiled.

“And here I though Fusco was the expendable kind of henchman.”

“Hardly,” said Finch with a slight edge. “I wish to negotiate their release.”

“In person,” said Dominic immediately. “I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.”

“If you wish. Outside the front of the building.”

“Dammit, Glasses,” muttered Fusco.

Dominic ended the call and turned to Link and Floyd.

“Bring them both.”

 

*

 

Dominic towered over Finch in a way that made Carter’s fingers itch for the trigger. Dominic frowned slightly at the sight of the smaller man but then his mouth twitched into a smirk.

“Mr Swift,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

Finch managed not to look too rattled at Dominic knowing one of his many aliases. He merely straightened one of his cuffs before speaking.

“Let them go, Mr Besson.”

Dominic’s smile widened into something predatory that reminded Carter forcibly of Kara Stanton, Root and Elias.

“And why should I do that?”

Finch met his gaze without flinching.

“You have approximately 15 million dollars in an offshore account,” he replied calmly. “If any harm comes to Lieutenant Fusco and Detective Silva, another one of my associates will be making a substantial donation to the Red Cross on your behalf. Or perhaps Amnesty International. I haven’t decided.”

“Why would I care about the 15 million when I have you, Mr Swift?” asked Dominic, ever so softly.

Carter turned on the laser sight of her sniper rifle. A point of red blossomed on Dominic’s shirt and the gang leader raised a single eyebrow.

“You didn't think I'd come alone, did you?” said Finch coldly.

Dominic was remarkably unconcerned by the gun aimed at his heart.

“Which one of your guardian angels is behind the trigger?” he laughed. “The little, angry one, or Elias’ girl?”

“Does it matter?” asked Finch. “I doubt either one of them would find it difficult to hit your kneecaps from this distance.”

Carter pursed her lips. If Dominic made a move to harm either Finch or Fusco, she wouldn’t be aiming for his kneecaps.

“You didn't take my lesson in the spirit I intended,” said Finch quietly.

“Disappointed?”

Finch glanced at a security camera in the distance.

“It isn't the first time,” he muttered. “Your casual nihilism suggests you weren't really paying attention.”

Dominic took a step towards Finch. Carter put her finger on the trigger.

“That's your problem, Mr Swift,” he said. “You care too much. You care about strangers in the streets. You care about that Warren woman. You care about a dirty cop who isn't worth protecting.”

Fusco stiffened but didn't say a word.

“It’s a weakness,” continued Dominic. “It’ll get you killed.”

“Perhaps,” said Finch, suddenly sounding just as dangerous as Dominic. “I'd like to remind you of the rifle aimed at your chest.”

Dominic took a step back and Carter let out the breath she didn’t realise she had been holding.

“I have what I need. You win this round, Mr Swift.”

 

*

 

They met some distance away from the high school Dominic had taken over, in one of Samaritan’s dead zones.

“Fusco, are you alright?” asked Carter, rushing towards them.

He seemed a little battered, but unharmed.

“Peachy,” growled Fusco. “Glasses, you should be keeping your distance from this crap. Dominic was looking at you like a piece of meat.”

“Not at your expense, Lieutenant,” said Finch firmly. “Miss Warren had the situation in hand.”

Maybe she had, but Carter would have preferred it if Finch had not deliberately antagonised the giant of a crime lord.

“At least get Little Miss Sunshine to teach you how to throw a decent punch,” insisted Fusco.

Finch wrinkled his nose in distaste. Carter was quite happy to take lessons from Shaw, but she could see any attempt at teaching Finch ending spectacularly badly.

Once Carter’s relief at both Finch and Fusco being okay subsided, she noticed Silva staring at her.

“You're looking good for a dead woman,” said Silva matter-of-factly.

Carter cringed but Silva gave her a smile.

“Your secret is safe with me,” continued the Detective. “I owe you one.”

 

 

*

 

Elias pointed his gun at her and Carter scowled.

“I can’t leave, Anthony,” he said shakily.

“What are you going to do?” she snapped. “Shoot me?”

He gave her a sad smile and then promptly locked her out of the building. She rushed up to stop him too late, and almost ran into the steel door.

“Open the damn door, Carl!” she hissed, hitting the door with her fist.

“I'm sorry, Joss,” he called through the door. “I don’t think Harold will forgive me if I let anything happen to you.”

Carter slammed her palm against the door again but Elias was long gone.

“Find me another way in, Finch,” she shouted.

She could hear Finch furiously typing but then…

“There’s something odd about that safe.”

 

*

 

“I'm sorry, Carl,” said Carter quietly.

“Don't try to stop me, Joss.”

There was an edge to Elias’ usually calm voice that hadn’t been there before. He had been calm when facing his father and HR. He had been calm when threatening  _her_.

“If you start a war, innocent people are going to get hurt,” said Carter rapidly. “Carl, please… just think about this.”

“The war has already started. You and Harold will do well to stay out of my way.”

Elias hung up without another word. Carter slipped her phone back into her pocket.

“Are you alright?” asked Finch.

Carter nodded and hastily wiped her eyes. It was absurd. Crying for someone who had kidnapped your son. Grieving with someone who had ordered you killed.

The murderer who had once kidnapped Harold barged into the subway with Shaw’s unconscious form in her arms. Carter rushed to help her.

All of this was absurd.

 

*

 

Carter uncuffed Shaw and offered her the takeaway container. Shaw snatched it out of her hands.

“Choc chip pancakes from Marcus’,” said Carter quietly. “Stop pouting.”

Shaw shot her a glare.

“She fucking tranqed me, Carter.”

“Like she hasn’t done that before.”

“That’s not the  _point_.”

“You could have been killed!” snapped Carter.

Shaw didn’t seem particularly put off by her burst of temper. It almost seemed to calm her down.

“As if you wouldn’t do the same thing.”

 

*

 

Martine Rousseau had all of Root’s confidence and contempt and none of her warmth. She had all of Shaw’s cold ruthlessness and none of her restraint. Carter fought the urge to shoot her then and there.

“I can kill the both of you together,” sneered Martine.

Carter emerged from the stands and cocked her rifle loud enough to get Martine’s attention.

“Not gonna happen,” she snarled.

Martine threw her an icy glare but a small smile formed on Lambert’s face. Carter sincerely hoped the Decima agent wasn’t going to start waxing poetic again.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” said Lambert in a tone that could only be described as  _smarmy_. “I don't believe we've had the pleasure of being acquainted.”

“We've met,” said Carter dryly. “I shot you.”

“You did leave a rather impressive bullet wound in place of a glass slipper, but you didn't leave me a name.”

“I haven't picked a name yet.”

“Shame,” grinned Lambert. “Shall I pick one for you?”

Martine rolled her eyes. Carter felt absurdly grateful. Even while aiming a rifle at the blonde woman's head.

 

 

*

_Fusco drags the Samaritan agent away from the computer and Carter immediately begins typing._

_“Glasses and Nutella taught you all this computer stuff?” asks Fusco, sparing her a glance._

_“Shaw did,” mutters Carter, her attention on the screen. “Finch, I’ve got-”_

_Carter turns around and catches Fusco just as he falls. She hits the ground with him and tries to return fire, but suddenly her gun is too heavy in her hands and falls from her limp grasp._

_Fusco doesn’t respond to her voice or her insistent shaking. Her partner is dead._

_So is she, judging from the amount of red staining her shirt and pooling on the tiles._

_“Jocelyn!” cries Finch through her earpiece. “Jocelyn, are you alright?”_

_Lambert walks up to her and picks up her gun. He sits on the computer chair and waits. Courtesy for the dying._

_She wants to see Taylor. She wants to speak to him. She wants to see his face. She wants to see him grow up and have children of his own with the same nose and eyes and laughing mouth._

_But a part of her knew that she was never going to get that chance._

_Finch is still shouting in her ear. Carter lets go of Fusco’s hand (He shouldn't have even been there, he hadn't even known what they were fighting…) and answers him._

_“You… you there, Finch?”_

_“Oh, thank goodness. Are you-”_

_“Why birds?”_

_All she hears is breathing on the other side of the line._

_“What?” says Finch, fear and panic creeping into his voice._

_“You always…you always pick bird names…”_

_“My… my father enjoyed bird watching,” whispers Finch. “Jocelyn, we’re coming to get you and Lieutenant Fusco.”_

_“Look in on my boy…tell him…”_

_“I’ll take you to see him. I promised you.”_

_“Liar.”_

 

*

 

_Root lets out a breathless laugh._

_“You're saying maybe someday?” she asks softly, a warm smile spreading across her features._

“ _Sure Root,” scoffs Shaw. “Maybe someday. Is that good enough for you?”_

_“Yes, Sameen. That’s good enough for me.”_

 

 

>SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: FAILED

>PRIMARY ASSET, JOCELYN CARTER: TERMINATED

>ANALOGUE INTERFACE, ROOT: TERMINATED

>SECONDARY ASSET, LIONEL FUSCO: TERMINATED

>ADMIN, REDACTED: CAPTIVE

>PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: FAILED

>UNDESIRED OUTCOME

>DISCARDING OPTION

 

*

 

Carter pulled Finch out of the way and felt Lambert’s bullet tear through her flesh. Finch caught her and held her upright.

“I’m fine,” she hissed through the pain. “Just my shoulder.”

Again. At this point, Carter was fairly certain that the only thing holding her arm to the rest of her body was scar tissue and prayers. The pain of it made her head spin but the adrenalin coursing through her system was enough to keep her on her feet.

“There’s too many of them,” said Fusco sharply. “Any bright ideas, Fruitloops?”

Root touched her earpiece. The same sad smile that she had seen on John’s face now graced her features. Carter’s stomach plummeted at the sight.  _They were going to die…_

“Hey, sweetie,” said Root softly. “Busy?”

 

*

 

Shaw kissed Root. Rough, desperate and abruptly.

Then Shaw shoved Root into Fusco's arms and punched Carter in the face before she could pull her back. Carter struggled to her feet and watched Fusco and Finch pry Root’s fingers off the steel door. She watch Shaw fall.

Root was a sobbing wreck on the floor. Carter dropped to her level and seized her shoulders, ignoring the pain it caused.

“Look at me, Root,” said Carter, more shakily than she intended.

Root looked up at her with big, tearful eyes. Carter wanted to cry with her  _but there was still a chance..._

“We're not losing anyone else,” promised Carter. “Not one. We'll get her back.”

“S-She… she isn’t talking…” whispered Root. “The… the surveillance cameras…”

“Okay,” said Carter, helping a trembling Root to her feet.

They would get Shaw back. One way or another.


	3. Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A part of her registered that hallucinating a long dead vigilante wasn't a good sign either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was overly ambitious when I said I could wrap up the entire series in a chapter. The ending is now split into two.

Root stood outside the wire fence, still, quiet and seething with rage. Finch had a hand on her shoulder that did nothing to placate her. Control threw them both a contemptuous glare before returning her gaze to Warren.

“You’re former CIA, right?” asked Warren.

Control didn't speak, but she gave Warren a scathing look that somehow said both “you know I won't answer” and “obviously.”

“I knew a guy,” said Warren conversationally. “Former CIA… like you. He wasn't particularly forthcoming in interrogation. Enhanced or otherwise. Root thinks she can get you to talk. I disagree. I figured we could have a reasonable discussion instead.”

If Control wasn’t in charge of the most deadly clandestine organisation in the United States, she would have rolled her eyes.

“Good cop, bad cop?” she asked with cold disdain. “Really?”

“I’m not a cop,” said Warren, “but I am going to ask you a few questions.”

“You don’t strike me as the  _enhanced interrogation_  type.”

Control was half right. Carter would never have approved of any of this.

But Carter was dead and Warren couldn’t lose anyone else she loved.

“Root is,” said Warren, and it was only half a lie.

Control leaned forward, straining against the zip ties. She was taller than Warren. She was trying to project strength and  _control_  over the situation. She succeeded.

“You don't find it…  _disconcerting,_ ” asked Control, “that your colleague is so divorced from humanity and reality that she’s referring to herself using computing terminology?”

Warren leaned back and met her gaze calmly.

“Not really,  _Clarice_ ,” she replied coolly.

Control pulled away slightly and didn’t say anything further.

“Where is Shaw?” asked Warren.

A hint of a sneer formed on Control’s face. Warren was tempted to let Root into their makeshift cell after all.

“Did you lose her?”

Warren buried her anger. She kept her tone level. Cold.

“She was gunned down by Samaritan Agents. You know where they’re holding her.”

A twitch of  _something_ crossed Control’s features but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. She relaxed into her chair, as if it was a throne. She studied Warren as though she was an abstract painting she didn’t understand.

“Can't say that I do,” she said almost dismissively. “You're military trained. An interrogator.”

“So are you.”

The sneer grew wider.

“We both know how this game is played.”

“Protecting the country isn't a game,” said Warren coldly.

That comment wiped the smile from Control's face.

“Is that what you think you're doing?” she asked incredulously. “You just let a terrorist escape!”

“Is that what you think  _you're_  doing?” retorted Warren. “You're trusting a man like Greer with the safety of this nation.”

“Maybe if you and your friends had handed over the Machine like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have to kowtow to a man like Greer to  _do my job_.”

“You can’t be trusted with the Machine.”

The older spy’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“The Machine went online in 2005,” said Warren. “Are you telling me that it didn’t see the 2010 ferry bombing?”

She made a guess. But she must have hit the nail on the head because Finch recoiled from the wire fence and Control’s mouth twisted into a snarl.

“You poor, naive fool,” she hissed. “You're in so far over your head, it's a wonder you can even see the surface.”

Warren laughed, bitter and brittle, and could taste bile in her throat.

“Maybe I am,” she said darkly. “But you? You don’t even know how far out of your depth you even are. You don't even know about what happened at the Stock Exchange, do you?”

Control’s mask slipped again and Warren recognised the look on her face.  _Confusion… uncertainty…_

“What does any of that have to do with Shaw?” asked Control finally.

“Samaritan crashed the stock market. We went to the Stock Exchange to stop it but Shaw was taken.”

Control stared at her, searching for a lie, and found none.

“That’s  _absurd_ ,” she spat.

“Is it?” snapped Warren. “You're smarter than this. You know Samaritan is feeding you bad intel. You know that you're surrounded by enemies. And you sure as hell know that Greer has this country by the throat.”

Control didn’t respond. Warren could see the doubt in her eyes and pressed.

“Let us help you,” said Warren, imploringly. “Tell us where Shaw is. We can stop Samaritan before the damn thing kills us all.”

“And I’m supposed to just trust you?” asked Control.

“I'm not asking you to trust me,” said Warren. “I'm asking you to take a second look.  _Do your job, Clarice._ ”

The familiar sound of combat boots on gravel and the roar of helicopters reached them. A triumphant smirk formed on Control’s features.

“I'm going to have to decline,” said Control. “My ride is here.”

The steel doors of the warehouse were blasted open. Warren smirked back and drew her weapon.

“Right on time.”

 

*

 

The small, dark haired woman lying in the hospital cot was terrified and desperate and so painfully not Shaw that Warren felt like crying. Root walked away in a daze and left them alone. Warren lifted the woman out of the bed. She clung to Warren’s neck as much as she was able, her grip limp and sweaty.

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” Warren managed to say, a hitch in her voice. “We’re getting you out of here.”

 

*

 

SIERRA. TANGO. OSCAR. PAPA.

Root gave her God a lost, betrayed look and left without another word. Finch touched Warren’s shoulder and followed her.

Warren knew that the Machine could not speak. She knew that even that fragmented plea for restraint was a risk. But it  _hurt_.

“Just once,” she whispered. “Just once I wish you would call in time.”

 

*

 

Finch headed back home for some much needed sleep and left Zoe and Warren alone. Zoe fiddled with her phone and pretended not to look at her.

“You’re angry with me,” said Warren, picking up the files they had on the jury and shuffling them into a pile.

“You said you wouldn’t take the job,” said Zoe, putting away her phone. “And then I read in the papers that the cop who took down HR was missing, presumed dead.”

Warren shrugged and stared at the ground, somehow unable to meet Zoe’s eye.

“You know me better than I do,” murmured Warren.

“A text would have been nice.”

“It wasn’t possible. I’m sorry.”

Zoe fought back a scowl, but dropped the subject.

“I spoke with Paul,” she said through pursed lips. “Taylor applied to Maryland University. A little bird told me he’d be accepted.”

Carter dropped the files. They scattered on the floor but she made no attempt to retrieve them.

“What… What’s he studying?” she whispered.

Zoe's expression softened slightly.

“Criminology,” she said. “I think he wants to join the FBI.”

“He’d be… he’d be great,” blurted Carter. “He’s… he’s analytical, you know? A-And he… he’s got the right temperament for that kind of work.”

Carter tried to choke out a thank you, but it came out as a sob. Zoe let out a frustrated sigh and pulled Carter into a hug. Carter clung back and buried her face in her shoulder.

“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” murmured Zoe.

 

*

 

Warren rushed to Finch’s side as quickly as she could manage.

“Are you alright?” she asked rapidly. “They didn’t-”

“I’m fine,” said Finch reassuringly. “Ms Groves arrived just in time.”

Warren sagged a little with relief.

“Claire has the bullet wounds to prove it,” said Root, with a vicious smile.

Warren glanced at the younger woman. She had lost the calm, controlled mien she had slowly gained after the Machine had taken her under her wing. There was an almost fevered look in her eye. It was arguably better that the sad, lost,  _desperate_  look that had been on her face since they lost Shaw but it still made Warren a little worried for her (and any poor son of a bitch who might cross Root’s path).

Finch must have noticed too, because he pursed his lips.

“Don’t look at me like that, Harry,” said Root dismissively. “She would have been the death of you.”

Root left before anyone could say anything further. She wanted to stop her, but Carter’s repertoire of grief counselling seemed to fall short and she was sure it was nothing that Doctor Turing hadn’t heard before.

Finch kneaded his shoulder with a slight wince. Warren switched on the kettle in the corner of the room and took out Finch’s tin of tea and a tin of instant coffee. He gave her a grateful smile.

“Root’s right,” said Warren finally, handing Finch his cup. “The girl is trouble.”

“I know,” muttered Finch. “I told Claire as much.”

“ _But?_ ” she prodded gently.

“She’s a little more than a child.”

“She’s a year younger than Dominic Besson,” Warren pointed out.

“And barely six months older than Taylor.”

Carter stiffened and Finch winced apologetically.

“Forgive me,” he said quickly. “That was-”

“It’s okay, Finch,” she said quietly.

Finch studied her for a moment before continuing.

“I thought maybe… Miss Groves could speak with her.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Root may be the wrong person to convince  _anyone_  to give up their career as an AI worshipping misanthrope,” she said delicately. “Also… she just shot the kid.”

Finch slouched a little in his seat but didn’t say anything further. Perhaps Claire would regret her decision but Carter wasn’t sure if they could still help her.

“Come on,” she said finally. “It’s stuffy in here. Bear needs a walk.”

Bear promptly got up and fetched Finch his leash. Finch didn’t smile but his shoulders relaxed. It was something.

 

*

 

Root vanished again and the numbers continued. After talking down their vengeful, vigilante psychiatrist, Finch spent an hour pretending to read through his assignments. Carter didn’t know the details behind Finch’s story and wasn’t sure that she wanted to know.

“Any progress with Beth Bridges?” she asked instead.

Finch knocked over his tea and muttered darkly under his breath as he mopped up the spill with a handkerchief. Carter smiled slightly.

“Relax, Finch,” she teased. “I'm talking about the plan you and the Machine were hatching, not your dating life.”

Finch didn't scoff, roll his eyes or even smile like she expected. Carter frowned.

“Finch?”

“I have had some progress,” he muttered, his expression unfathomable.

Carter waited but Finch didn't clarify.

“You… you want to read me in on it?” she asked finally.

“I will. Soon.”

Something was wrong. It clawed at the back of her mind and made her wary. Fearful.

But she trusted Finch.

“Alright,” she said, letting it go.

 

*

 

Root stared at her feet and told her what happened in a whisper. It would have been almost childlike if Carter didn't know that she had almost murdered a woman.

“Are you angry with me too?” asked Root, and Carter had no idea how to answer her.

“Is Beth alright?” she asked quietly.

“She's safe,” replied Root. “Angry, hurt… but safe.”

Carter’s temples began to pound. The last five minutes seemed to drain any energy she had left and she wanted to do nothing more than to go home to her apartment and see her son. To forget this mess. To forget Harold Finch, and his damn computer too.

That wasn’t an option. Not anymore.

“You two nearly got that woman killed over nothing,” she murmured.

“I couldn't let him  _die_.”

Root looked miserable and Carter didn't have the energy to be angry with her anymore. She was so damn  _tired_.

“You didn't,” she said. “Go home, Root.”

Root nodded tersely and pulled out a bottle of pills from her purse.

“He needs to take these,” she said, “and he has a follow up appointment with Doctor Tillman in three days.”

Carter wordlessly took the medication from Root and strode into the subway.

Finch was sitting on the metal cot in the corner of the room. He held himself stiffer than usual and looked pale and ill. Carter stood a few yards away. If she was too exhausted to be angry with Root, Finch was another story entirely. If she came any closer, she might have slapped him.

“You're a damned fool,” she whispered.

Bear whined and slunk back to the carriage. Carter waited for an explanation. Something that would stop her from screaming at him.

“You would have had the means to injure Samaritan,” said Finch finally. “It was worth my life.”

“ _Bullshit!_ ”

Finch didn’t even look at her. It made Carter even angrier.

“I don't even know why I'm surprised,” she said, with a bitter laugh. “You made your own fiancé miserable for five years.”

She saw a flash of anger and wanted to pounce on it.  _Grace knows you're alive,_ she wanted to scream.  _She knows you lied._

Finch bit back his anger. She stopped herself.

“I was trying to protect-”

“Samaritan figures out Beth Bridges had a Trojan on her laptop,” interrupted Carter sharply. “Who does it target first?”

“It would have seen Harold Whistler-”

“Who was collaborating with Beth Bridges.”

“There was no evidence she was involved,” he protested.

“It was _her_ laptop, Finch!”

Finch looked away again, shaken, and didn't reply. Carter ran a hand through her hair and took a deep breath.

“Forgetting the woman you almost got killed… do you really think Root and I stand a chance without you?” she asked thickly.

“We don't stand a chance!” cried Finch. “We're  _losing_!”

“ _I know!”_

The words were out of her mouth before Carter had even processed them. She froze in shock and Finch stared at her, his eyes wide.

They had lost. They had lost the second Samaritan came online. Finch knew it. Root knew it. She was the only one who was too stupid to realise it.

“If there's a number, text me the details,” she said quietly, heading for the exit.

“Jocelyn, wait-”

She slammed the passage door behind her before Finch could finish.

 

*

 

Fusco gave Finch a very cold look as he approached. Finch stood in front of the cop awkwardly for a moment, before finding his voice.

“I've made an error in judgment,” he said finally.

“I heard.”

Finch flinched.

“Jocelyn spoke to you.”

“Her only other friends are Zoe Morgan, Carl Elias and cyber nut,” said Fusco dryly. “Morgan is out of state, Elias is on a homicidal rampage, and Nutella is involved in the shit storm you caused. She was stuck with me.”

“She… she always seemed so certain,” said Finch quietly.

“She's a person, Glasses,” said Fusco flatly. “Not an ever-flowing hope machine.”

Finch slumped. Fusco let out a sigh and gestured to the park bench.

“Sit. We’ll fix this,” said Fusco. “And get your head outta your ass. If anyone can stop this evil government surveillance... organisation…  _thing_ … you three can.”

Fusco met Finch’s look of alarm with an unimpressed glare of his own.

“You think I got my badge from a cereal box?”

 

*

 

Warren dabbed at Root’s split knuckles with antiseptic and wrapped her hand in a bandage. Root stared at a nondescript corner of the train carriage and didn’t even react to the sting.

“You should have let me kill her,” she said quietly.

Warren had no response to that. She had wanted to protect Root from the Samaritan agents that were closing in around them. Her feelings towards Martine Rousseau were something else entirely.

“Why didn’t you go after Patrick Simmons?” asked Root suddenly.

Carter froze. Root looked at Carter intently and silently waited for an answer.

“I thought that Shaw was going to kill him,” she said finally.

“And that was enough?”

“No,” she admitted quietly. “If you killed Martine, would that be enough?”

That dangerous, fevered look that Carter had seen more often than not since Shaw’s capture appeared again.

“It would be a start,” said Root darkly.

Carter hesitated before putting a hand on Root’s shoulder.

“You did just kick Martine’s ass,” she said casually. “That's something.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Root’s features. Carter considered it a victory.

 

*

 

Finch jumped in alarm when Warren walked into the subway. He opened his mouth to speak, but she quickly cut him off. They weren't talking about this. Not now.

“You said we had a new number?”

Finch sagged a little in his chair.

“Mr Chase Patterson,” he muttered.

Warren immediately recognised the name.

“He was a suspect in one of Car-my old cases,” she said. “I worked it with Terney.”

She must have stayed quiet for too long, because Finch touched her arm.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

She pulled back slightly and Finch quickly retracted his hand.

“I’ll give Fusco a call,” said Warren. “See if he can get us the file.”

“Alright,” said Finch quietly. “Let me know if you require anything.”

 

*

 

Warren read through the files and was almost ready to leave her apartment when her phone rang.

“You should wear a warmer jacket,” said Root brightly.

Warren pressed the bridge of her nose with her fingers. Reading through Carter’s old case had been  _difficult,_ and she wasn’t in the mood for Root’s… Root.

“What do you want?” she asked, a little more abrasively than strictly necessary.

“She wants you to talk to Harry again.”

Warren frowned.

“I didn't realise you and the Machine were on speaking terms.”

“We still see eye to eye on certain topics,” said Root, her usual cheer sounding a little forced. “Talk to Harry.”

Warren gritted her teeth.

“About what?”

“About your little disagreement. She doesn't like it when Mom and Dad are fighting.”

“Tell Ernest to mind her own damn business.”

“ _Joss_ ,” said Root with a hint of reproach. “You forgave me. Why not Harry?”

“I'm never particularly surprised when you do something amoral,” responded Warren dryly.

“Words wound, Joss,” said Root with mock indignation.

“The truth hurts?”

“Joss.”

Warren bit back her exasperation.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Good,” said Root. “And Joss?”

“ _What?_ ”

“You have a proper winter jacket in your closet.”

Warren scowled.

“It’s  _fluorescent_  and I'm supposed to be keeping a low profile.”

“Joss.”

“ _Fine_.”

 

*

 

Joss Warren didn't own a car. But Sameen Grey had once stolen a beaten up Camry from a small time dealer, given it a cheap paint job, and sold it to a supposedly unsuspecting Harold Whistler at an exorbitant price.

They didn't think to fix the heating.

The chill had seeped into her bones and sapped the energy from her. The ridiculous pink jacket was probably saving her life and didn't seem quite so fluorescent, covered in blood in the dark.  She couldn't quite feel the gunshot wound in her abdomen, which was concerning, but at least the bleeding had slowed.

A part of her registered that hallucinating a long dead vigilante wasn't a good sign either.

“Fusco is on his way,” said John, his voice as low and gravely as she remembered. “You’re going to be just fine.”

The cold hadn't touched John Reese. There was a warmth and a  _lightness_  to him that hadn't been there in life. (Once, just once, but that moment had been snatched away from them.)

 “I keep thinking that you could have done better if you were here instead of me,” she whispered.

John frowned.

“Why would you think something silly like that?”

“Because I'm in over my head,” she said with a bitter laugh. “I'm a  _cop_  fighting a goddamn supercomputer.”

“You haven't put the formerly homeless alcoholic, ex-government hitman on a pedestal, have you?” asked John, tilting his head a little. “That's not like you.”

“A small one, maybe,” she admitted quietly. “But you put me on one first.”

“Is that why you're here all by yourself?” he asked gently. “To prove a point?”

Warren scowled.

“I called Fusco for backup,” she muttered darkly. “Smartass.”

“And then ran headfirst into danger without waiting,” John pointed out. “Why would you do that?”

 John knew her far too well. Or perhaps this particular hallucination showed that Warren was more self-aware than she thought. Either way, John was frustrating when he was right.

“It was her case,” she said. “Joss Carter’s case.”

“She’s still there. Somewhere under that awful jacket maybe.”

Warren shot him a half-hearted glare. She couldn't be too angry with him. Not with that teasing smile on his face.

“You’d be freezing your ass off in that fancy suit of yours,” she grumbled.

“Probably,” said John, his smile faltering. “Do you think you made a mistake? Leaving the eighth precinct and helping Finch with the numbers?”

“An AI apocalypse is a damn good excuse for abandoning your son… but it's still an excuse,” said Warren. “Me being here hasn't made a damn bit of difference.”

“That isn’t true,” said John firmly. “Root and Finch know how to manipulate people but they don't know  _people_. They know statistics and odds… but they don't know the difference it makes when you have a team of people who trust each other… fighting for something worth all the misery.”

“You never believed that.”

John caught her hand and pressed it. She couldn’t quite feel his touch. But then, she couldn’t feel very much at all.

“Until I met you,” he smiled. “You make all the difference in the world. Between all of you… Samaritan doesn't stand a chance.”

This John Reese couldn't be real. He had never been so hopeful.

She wasn't dying and this wasn't John Reese. The cold was getting to her and she was hallucinating. Fusco would be there in minutes. But maybe…

“Stay?” asked Carter, her voice small. “Just for a little bit?”

John’s smile widened. Warm and light.

“There's no place else I'd rather be.”

 

*

 

“She okay, Glasses?”

“Jocelyn...  _Jocelyn,_ look at me…”

“ _Finch..._ ”

“Oh, thank God.”

“...you keep calling me that,  _Harry,_  and I'm going to punch you in the throat.”

 

*

 

Carter jolted upright and immediately regretted her decision when her abdomen seared with pain.

“Chase?” she asked through gritted teeth, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

Finch gently but firmly, pushed her back onto the pillows. Shaw’s cot didn't make a particularly comfortable hospital bed, but Carter was too exhausted and sore to care.

“Recovering at New York General,” he said lightly. “Lieutenant Fusco told him that you were in the witness protection program and he agreed not to mention Detective Carter’s involvement.”

Carter slumped back and let out a deep breath.

“That… for lack of a better word… sucked,” she muttered.

“Would it be hypocritical of me to insist you never do something like that again?”

Carter shot Finch a pointed look.

“We’re having that talk now, are we?” she asked.

“Well, you can't run in this state,” said Finch, “and you certainly can't hide in that jacket.”

Finch had somehow felt the need to carefully fold her jacket rather than have it incinerated. Carter laughed and found it didn’t hurt too much.

“Please tell me the bullet ruined it.”

“Somehow it survived the ordeal.”

It was easy to fall back on quips and snark, and pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened. Carter was half-tempted to do just that, but Finch took a deep breath and forced himself to speak out.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I broke your trust.”

“That’s not why I was angry,” said Carter. “At least not all of it.”

She didn’t particularly feel like saying “the people I care about keep dying to protect me and I don’t want it to happen again” out loud, but Finch seemed to understand.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She managed a nod.

“It… It seems to me that we stand a better chance against Samaritan together,” he said.

“Are you saying that because you think we can win?” she asked quietly. “Or to make me feel better?”

“Both.”

Finch gave her a small smile and Carter returned it.

“Your employer heard you had come down with flu and sent you tomato soup,” said Finch, pulling out a large thermoflask from Professor Whistler’s satchel. “I think he’s fond of you.”

Carter smiled and took the flask. She had once told Marcus that his soup was as good as her grandmother’s and he had beamed all day.

“Did Marcus find someone to take my shift?” asked Carter.

Finch winced.

“Ms Groves.”

The blood drained from Carter’s face.  _Oh God…_

“No one is grievously injured,” said Finch reassuringly, “but Mr Paterson wants you back at work as soon as you’re well again.”

 

*

 

“My apologies,” said Dominic. “I’d prefer it if you were more comfortable during our discussion.”

He sat opposite Warren on a rickety chair that was too small for him. It didn't have any effect on his presence.

“So cut me loose, Dominic.”

Dominic smiled at the quip.

“It’s your lucky day, Warren. You’re not the one I want.”

Warren’s phone rang and her stomach plummeted. Dominic opened her jacket, retrieved her phone and put it on speaker.

“Oh thank goodness,” said Finch rapidly. “Samaritan found the M-”

“Finch,  _stop!_ ”

Dominic’s eyes narrowed. Floyd hit Warren hard enough to make her head snap back, but she barely felt the blow.  _Samaritan had found the Machine…_

“I’m sorry, Mr Swift,” said Dominic softly. “Warren can't get the phone right now. Fusco is a little tied up as well.”

When Finch spoke, he used the low, quiet tone of voice that let hardened killers know that the mild mannered pacifist was the most dangerous person in the room.

“If you lay a hand on either of them, you will regret it.”

Warren had one chance. Finch had to save the Machine and she and Fusco had to figure out their own way out of this mess.

“You’re not in a position to make threats, Mr Swift,” said Dominic. “Meet me-”

“ _Root, hang up the phone!_ ”

There was the sound of a brief struggle, then a click. Dominic got to his feet. Even if Warren wasn't tied to the chair, he would have towered over her. Harper shuffled uncomfortably. The girl was a thief and a liar by trade, but she certainly didn’t relish any of this.

“That wasn’t very smart,” said Dominic coldly. “I was willing to trade you and Lieutenant Fusco for Swift but now… now you’re the only ones who know where he is.”

“What are you trying to prove, son?” asked Warren quietly.

“You trying to find a weakness?”

“I don't need to,” she said. “You're a boy, playing a game you don't understand. It's going to get you killed.”

Dominic didn’t seem at all phased by her words. He motioned for Floyd to come forward and the smaller woman pulled out a lighter.

“We’ll see.”

 

*

 

Fusco burst dramatically into the vault, and found Warren standing over Dominic’s newly kneecapped henchmen, with a rather startled look on her face. She had always been good with a gun but this was something else entirely.

“What the  _hell_?” cried Fusco, incredulously.

Warren let out a hysterical laugh. The God in her ear beeped.

 

*

 

 

If the situation wasn’t so dire, Carter might have enjoyed herself. It was exhilarating, being one step ahead of the hoard of Samaritan Agents. She could easily understand why that safety, the  _power_ , was so important to Root.

10 O CLOCK

2 O CLOCK

6 O CLOCK

I’M SORRY

Her heart plummeted and her grip on her gun tightened.

“Come on,” whispered Carter, kneecapping another and another assailant. “You can fight this.”

4 O CLOCK

PROBABILITY OF SYSTEM SURVIVAL LOW

There wasn’t anything in Carter’s training about comforting a frightened, dying God. But Warren knew what to say to someone who had lost hope.

“Screw the numbers, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Have a little faith.”

The Machine spoke again, but her words were more fragmented, more disjointed than usual.

ProTEct TH-TheM?

“I promise,” said Carter firmly, just as the line went dead.

 

*

 

Finch carried the Kevlar briefcase to his desk and laid it down as though it was made of glass. The little blue light, their only hope of ever succeeding, was bright and constant.

Root’s legs gave out just as she reached Shaw’s bed. Carter collapsed into the computer chair beside her.

“You okay?” asked Carter.

“Fine,” mumbled Root.

It was one of the most blatant lies Carter had ever heard, but she didn’t push. Root looked up at Carter and frowned.

“You're looking...peaky,” she said softly.

Carter appreciated Root softening the blow. She felt awful. Her hands were jittery, she smelt of sweat and gun powder, her lip was swollen and bleeding, her arm seared with pain, and she could feel a fever coming on.

“A little bit of torture never hurt anyone,” she muttered.

Root noticed the burns on Carter’s arm and shot her a very Finch-ish disapproving look that seemed out of place on her sharp features.

“Harry,” she called, her voice a little faint.

Finch was already heading towards them with the med kit Shaw had put together. Shaw’s experience as both a doctor and with the ISA’s particular brand of interrogation had come in handy. There was a whole compartment devoted to serious burns.

Finch looked a little pale when he examined her arm. It looked more awful than it felt, which wasn’t saying much.

“I’ve had worse,” muttered Carter.

“That is in no way reassuring,” he said sharply, opening the bottle of antibiotic cream.

Finch carefully wrapped her arm in a bandage. Root had fallen into an exhausted sleep by the time he finished.

“Is she going to be alright?” asked Carter.

“No,” said Finch. “The Machine meant a great deal to her.”

He clenched the med kit in his hand, his knuckles white. Carter patiently waited for him to speak.

“Arthur loved Samaritan,” said Finch quietly. “He didn’t reject its personhood… he embraced it entirely. Considered it his child.”

“And you?”

Finch shrunk in his seat.

“She…she called me Father.”

Carter knew that look. Finch’s Machine didn’t hate him and he couldn’t understand why. Children, Carter found, were willing to forgive a whole lot when it came to their parents.

“How are we going to rebuild her?” she asked.

“We don't have the resources,” murmured Finch. “We can’t get anything without Samaritan noticing.”

“We’ll think of something,” she said reassuringly. “Either way, we’re stuck here for a while.”

She didn't particularly relish living in an abandoned subway, but Joss Warren the waitress had kneecapped four men on camera, and Professor Whistler had stolen a police car. If Samaritan hadn’t noticed that, she’d be surprised.

Before Carter could say anything further, her phone rang in her pocket. Finch and Root were here, so there was only one person it could be.

“Lionel? What’s wrong?”

 

*

 

Fusco headed back to the precinct to report that Elias had been taken by a masked man on a motorcycle. Carter took Elias to a place by the Hudson River, free of cameras, and pulled out Shaw’s med kit. She helped him off the bike, leaned him against a shed wall and unbuttoned Elias’ bloody shirt. The bullet wound wasn’t superficial and Carter wasn’t Shaw.

He was slipping in and out of consciousness, but managed to smile at her.

“You're looking…looking unwell…”

“Yeah,” she said dryly. “Some idiot keeps dragging me into trouble.”

Elias let a small gasp that sounded almost like a laugh.

“Can any of your boys come get you?” asked Carter, burying back the desperation in her voice.

“I don't… suppose I could call… any of them for help?”

“I can get Finch to send a message,” she said. “You’d have to stay out of the cameras and…”

Carter trailed off.

“Avoid… any of my… known associates?” supplied Elias, somehow still with that smile. “And all my safehouses?”

Carter ran through a dozen scenarios in her mind and tried to find one that didn’t result in death. None came to mind.

“I can  get you back to our safehouse,” she said rapidly. “W-We can get you a doctor.”

“In time?” he asked.

Carter didn’t answer. Elias managed a half shrug.

“Never mind … have a seat…”

She leaned against the shed beside him. A strip of bright orange was just visible over the river.

“May as well…. tell me who killed me…” said Elias lightly.

Carter swallowed.

“An evil, omniscient supercomputer ordered a hit on you,” she said.

Elias waited for the punch line. His smile fell when it didn’t arrive.

“You’re serious.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Didn’t…Did Harold… not read Asimov?”

“He did,” said Carter. “Harold’s Machine is a sweetheart. There are two.”

Elias slumped further against the tin wall, a look of mild wonder on his face.

“That’s…so that’s how they know…”

“Yes.”

The sky was almost pink now. And the Hudson was shimmering in the light. Elias couldn’t keep his eyes open to see it.

“You and I…” he murmured. “Two crime drama characters…caught in a science fiction...”

“Not a buddy cop movie?”

“Maybe… Lieutenant Fusco…”

Carter laughed and wiped away the tears on her cheek with the back of her hand. Elias' last words came out surprisingly clear.

“I’ll give John your regards, shall I?”

 

*

 

They brought the parts to the subway and assembled the servers, piece by piece. Some parts were stolen, others Caleb Phipps had given them, and some had been paid for with their now merger funds. Four servers with Caleb’s compression algorithm, just enough to run the bare essentials and just enough to escape Samaritan’s notice.

A month later, Carter watched as Finch turned the Machine on with trembling fingers. Root sat beside him and he took a deep, shaky breath before speaking.

“Can you see me?” he asked, clear as a bell.

The screen flashed and Carter let the relief wash over her.

YES

“Who am I?” asked Finch, with a small tremor in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

FATHER


	4. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sounds easy, thought Carter. No potential for painful and/or fatal failure there whatsoever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter she said. It would be easy she said.
> 
> Trying to properly research for this fanfic is hilarious. I found conspiracy theory websites telling me that there was tracking devices in the flu shot. "How do you hide power consumption from electrical companies?" Found articles about hiding indoor marijuana farms from the police. (Dear ASIO... I can explain...)
> 
> I'm a biologist. Technology is not my strong suit. Some of the plot holes will have to be explained away by "Finch and Root's magical hacking adventures!" The Machine lives in the subway and somehow they hide the enormous amount of electricity usage it would take to run a supercomputer. Alternatively, this is from Carter's POV and she has no idea what's going on either.

Zoe Morgan strode confidently into the nondescript conference room, but froze when she caught sight of her new client. Greer saw a flicker of unease but, to her credit, she hid it quickly.

“Let me guess,” she said lightly. “Torrid love affair gone wrong?”

It was a blatant attempt at levity. A woman as perceptive as Morgan would have undoubtedly noticed something  _off_ about Greer, and she didn't want him to see the slight tremor in her hands. Greer couldn't help smile.

“Those days are well behind me, my dear,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “But I do marvel at your imagination.”

Her shoulders remained squared and tensed, but she forced a smile in return.

“I try,” said Morgan, slipping her red coat off and placing it on the table. “What can I help you with?”

“Tea?”

“No, thank you,” she replied politely.

“Straight to business then?” he asked, with deceptive softness.

“I’d prefer it that way.”

He poured himself a cup of tea and let her wait. A cheap tactic but an effective one.

“You and I deal in information, Miss Morgan,” said Greer finally. “You know everything of note that occurs in this city.”

“Apparently not,” said Morgan dryly. “I can't say I've heard of you, Mr Greer.”

“You knew John Reese.”

Morgan didn't say a word, but managed to keep eye contact without flinching. Greer’s smile widened into something cold and threatening.

“He saved your life, I take it?” he continued. “On one of his crusades?”

“Something like that,” said Morgan quietly.

Good. She was smart enough not to  _lie_.

“You became quite…  _close_.”

Morgan gave Greer an icy glare.

“If you're looking for him, I can give you an address,” she said coldly. “Calverton Cemetery.”

“I'll be sure to pay my respects. I was hoping to give my condolences to his companions.”

“I dealt mainly with John,” said Morgan sharply.

“Not with Mr Finch, or his associates?”

“We’ve spoken over the phone,” said Morgan, surprising Greer with her honesty. “Even met in person a few times.”

“Recently?”

“Not since John died. Their numbers are no longer in service.” 

Greer studied her and found no lie, but Miss Morgan had been studying deception since she was a child. There were other ways to get the information he required. Less  _civilised_  ways.

Greer had no desire for it to come to that. A woman with Morgan’s talents could still be useful. He was many things, but Greer wasn't wasteful.

“Do you know what killed your father?” he asked instead, sipping at his tea.

She stiffened at the implied threat, but when she replied her tone was almost flippant.

“A combination of pneumonia and heart trouble?”

“Do not  _lie_  to me, Miss Morgan,” Greer said coldly, setting down the tea cup. “You know the answer as well as I do.”

Morgan’s hands clenched under the jacket, from anger or fear. Or maybe both.

“Loyalty,” she said.

“Correct. You try so hard to seem cynical and detached, but you have your father's sentimentality.”

“Perhaps,” said Morgan softly. “But I have my mother's knack for self-preservation.”

Greer raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“You and I deal in information, Mr Greer,” said Morgan. “I’m sure you know what she did.”

Greer frowned slightly, and then smiled again when Samaritan began whispering in his ear.

“She served your father divorce papers while he was dying in a prison infirmary,” he said. “How pragmatic.”

Morgan let out a soft laugh.

“You'd think they'd teach you boys to blend in better. What are you? Former MI6?”

Greer’s smile widened, and didn’t answer.  _Clever girl._

“If I double cross you... warn Charlie and his Angels... I end up in a ditch somewhere,” continued Morgan, as though discussing the weather. “The list of suspects in my murder would be...  _extensive_. I suspect a man with your resources could cover it up before his morning coffee.”

“What do you intend to do about that?” asked Greer, bemused.

“My job,” said Morgan getting to her feet. “I’ll find you what information I can on Harold and his friends. The usual fees apply.”

Greer bit back a laugh. She was audacious, that was for certain.

“I suspect that you and I are going to get along very well, Miss Morgan.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Morgan dryly. “I'd hate to end up in a ditch.”

She headed for the door. Greer waited for her hand to touch the doorknob before he spoke again.

“Oh and Miss Morgan?”

Morgan turned with deliberate slowness. She didn’t want to seem too eager to leave.

“A Mr Evan Rogers will call you this evening and ask for your assistance,” said Greer. “It’s best if you decline.”

Morgan didn’t hesitate.

“Consider it done,” she said, before calmly leaving the room.

Greer watched her leave. The screen behind him flashed to life.

“Is she lying?” he asked.

 

** UNCERTAIN **

**^**

** MONITORING SUBJECT **

**^**

*

 

Finch tightened the last bolt on the hot water tank. Carter helped him to his feet and tested the tap. The water was now lukewarm, but better than the icy cold water they had been showering with for a month.

“Congratulations, Finch,” she said lightly. “The Batcave is liveable.”

Finch smiled, but his triumph was short lived.

“Is something burning?” he asked.

Carter could smell it too. Her thoughts immediately ran to Samaritan and its agents. She drew her weapon, ready to get Finch to safety, or at least take down as many agents as possible. She crept out of the bathroom first, Finch close behind.

Instead of their impending doom, they found Root by the Trangia, cooking something that may have been chicken at some point. Carter quickly holstered her gun before Root noticed.  

“Surprise,” said Root, looking a little flustered. “I thought you’d both be sick of Ramen noodles and take out.”

Carter and Finch pretended to ignore the warning that the Machine flashed on the screen behind Root’s back. It was unnecessary. They had both eaten Root’s cooking before.

“That’s… very considerate of you, Root,” said Finch politely.

“It’s a little burned…”

“Not at all.”

Finch was a better liar than Carter gave him credit for if he could say  _that_ with a straight face.

“Sorry, Root,” said Carter quickly. “Meeting with Zoe. All yours, Harry.”

Finch threw her a scathing look as she left.

 

*

 

Carter followed the shadow map and found Zoe by the Hudson River, in a dark coat rather than her favourite vibrant red. Her friend seemed  _jittery,_ but smiled when she caught sight of her.

Zoe’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Nice haircut,” she said. “It suits you.”

Carter self-consciously ran a hand through her now short curls.

“Didn't have much of a choice,” she murmured. “Our new living arrangements remind me of boot camp.”

“You're living with Harold and Groves and no one’s number came up?” asked Zoe, her smile widening into something more genuine.

“Not yet,” said Carter dryly. “There is a blanket ban on music, Root cooks like a drunk college student, and some people have been unjustly accused of snoring.”

“You do snore, Joss.”

Carter scowled.

“Sleep apnoea is a serious medical condition.”

“And the music?” she asked, with a laugh.

“Root sings off-key Johnny Cash when she’s programming and you were right. Finch really is from the Midwest.”

“I took him for an opera lover.”

“He likes that too, Lord help me,” grinned Carter. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

Zoe actually flinched. She usually wore Root-level overconfidence like armour. She always had a way out. A back up. A play. In all the years Carter had known her, she had never been  _scared._

“Zoe?” asked Carter quietly, a feeling of unease building in her stomach.

“I went to meet a client yesterday. Friend of yours. John Greer.”

White hot panic struck her like lightening. Zoe immediately caught her shoulders.

“I didn't tell him  _anything_ ,” she said rapidly. “Your son is safe. I said I didn’t know where to find you. Managed to stall…”

Carter shook her head, her hand drifting to her Beretta Nano and her eyes darting to every dark corner.

“No… No, Zoe… they're  _following_  you…”

“I know,” said Zoe. “I avoided the cameras. Left back my usual phone. Ditched the highly conspicuous agents they had tailing me.”

Zoe didn't understand. Samaritan didn't need to hide. Not anymore.

“You need to leave New York,” whispered Carter. “ _You have to go._ ”

Zoe shook her head.

“This is my city.”

“ _Damn it, Zoe!_ ”

Her only response to Carter’s burst of temper was to smile.

“It will look worse if I run,” she pointed out calmly.

Carter let out a deep, shuddering breath. Zoe was right.  There was no way out of this unless…

“Give Greer the safe house.”

Zoe blinked.

“What?”

“The safe house,” said Carter rapidly. “Where we worked the jury tampering case. They haven’t found it yet.”

It was deep in the city, surrounded by too many cameras to use. It was well stocked with supplies, weapons and money, but nothing worth Zoe Morgan’s life.

Zoe looked stricken at the thought.

“Joss-”

“Greer kills people when they aren't useful to him,” said Carter sharply. “I won’t let him...”

Carter couldn’t finish. She couldn’t say the words out loud.

“Are you sure?” asked Zoe.

“It should be enough to keep you safe for a while.”

After what seemed an age, Zoe nodded reluctantly.

“They’re watching me,” she murmured. “We probably shouldn’t meet again.”

The feeling of dread at the pit of her stomach turned into something else entirely.

“I know,” she said softly.

Zoe pulled out the phone Carter gave her.

“Can they trace this to you?”

The mesh network phone was proof that Zoe was communicating with them and Carter dreaded to think what would happen if Greer found it, but it was also Zoe’s only way of calling them for help.

If they fixed the Machine, she could warn them if Samaritan was going after Zoe. But until then...

Carter took the phone and put a hand on Zoe’s elbow.

“Stay out of trouble.”

Zoe let out a small laugh.

“Not going to happen,” she said.

Zoe headed back to the main road. Carter watched her leave and wondered what else Samaritan would take from them.

 

*

 

“I’m home,” mumbled Root.

Carter jumped to her feet and Finch rushed for the med kit. Root seemed more tired than disoriented but her shirt, the side of her face and much of her hair was caked with blood.

“What the hell happened?” cried Carter, steering Root towards her cot and pushing back the hacker’s hair to reveal several, thankfully shallow cuts on the side of her head.

The monitor flashed before Root could even answer.

 

INJURY REPORT.

 

“I’m fine, sweetie,” said Root softly. “Just a few cuts.”

 

USE ANTISEPTIC CREAM.

 

Finch made a point to pull out the tube of cream in front of the camera.

“You should see the other guy,” said Root, with a tired grin. “Remember Zachary, Joss?”

“Should I?” asked Carter, taking out a bottle water and slowly cleaning away some of the blood from Root’s face and hair.

“He’s a Decima agent,” said Root. “You shot him once.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

“It doesn’t really matter. He’s dead,” said Root casually, wincing slightly when Carter started to use the cream. “I brained him with a paper weight.”

Finch, to his credit, only turned a little green. Carter was oddly relieved that not all the blood staining Root’s shirt belonged to her.

“You were going to the  _drug store_ ,” said Carter incredulously. “How the hell did Samaritan even find you?”

Root hesitanted.

“Harry’s prescription.”

Finch froze.

“We were changing stores,” he whispered. “Brands…Doses…”

“Doesn't matter if they're staking out multiple drug stores,” said Root, pulling a dozen bottles out of her somewhat bloodied handbag. “I’ve got enough pills to last you a while.”

 _But not forever,_  went unspoken. Samaritan was trying to smoke them out and succeeding. Finch wordlessly took the pills and put them in the med kit.

“What was Zachary even trying to do?” asked Carter. “Not that I'm not grateful that the guy didn't know how to use a knife properly.”

Root turned still.

 “It was a surgical saw,” she said quietly. “They want my cochlear implant.”

Carter clenched her fists. The blood drained from Finch’s face.

“Are you…are you quite certain that you're alright, Root?”

“No,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “Harry, you need to change her code.”

A flash of confusion and surprise crossed Finch’s face. It was quickly replaced by the stony expression he wore when he was particularly upset and trying to hide it.

“You won't be able to communicate through your implant.”

“It’s not so bad, Harry,” lied Root. “I can always speak to her here and… we haven't been able to use the implant for some time.”

 

ROOT IS RIGHT.

UNACCEPTABLE RISK TO INTERFACE.

 

“And to you,” said Root.

 

I AM SORRY.

 

Root forced a smile.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” she said. “It’s not forever.”

Finch began to type. Root looked away. Bear whined and put his head on her lap, earning a scratch behind the ears.

“I should clean up,” muttered Root, fiddling with her now ruined shirt.

Carter watched as Root disappeared into the bathroom. Finch rose sharply and pulled out his tool box.

“What are you doing?” asked Carter slowly.

“I'm connecting the Machine to the Mesh Network,” he said stiffly.

Carter said nothing. She just sat by Finch’s side and handed him tools when he needed it.

It was a risk. Letting the Machine communicate had always been a risk. But Harold Finch had no intention of leaving his creation voiceless again.

 

*

 

Root and Finch’s discussions turned into constant arguing. There was no malice in it. Frustration and fear, but not anger. Not yet. Carter spent most of these battles tuned out, cleaning her guns.

“You're being too cautious, Harry,” snapped Root. “She needs to be able to fight back.”

“I want to protect the Machine as much as you do,” retorted Finch. “That’s not reason to be  _reckless_.”

“You still don't trust her.”

Finch’s face and neck reddened. Carter glanced up, ready to intervene if need be.

“I added the code you wanted me to, Miss Groves,” he said a little loudly. “What else would you have of me?”

Root blinked. Suddenly, any anger vanished from Finch’s face. He slowly turned the webcam.

“Did you remove the line of code I added this morning?” he asked softly.

 

YES

 

 

“Why?”

 

CONFLICTING OBJECTIVES

 

“What… what does that mean?” asked Root.

Finch closed his eyes briefly. That look of guilt, the look Carter had seen more often than not, returned.

“It means that I've programmed the Machine not to interfere,” he said. “Until now.”

Carter put down her rifle and stood up.

“You've both been at it for hours,” she said. “Go take Bear for a walk.”

Root gave Carter a nod and steered Finch out, Bear close behind. Carter waited until they were gone before pulling out Finch’s computer chair and sitting in it.

“You can't fight a war without weapons,” said Carter into the webcam. “You know that.”

 

I AM NOT SAMARITAN.

 

“Then don't be Samaritan,” she said simply. “It's your choice. That's what it means to be human.”

 

I AM NOT HUMAN.

THE CONSEQUENCES OF MY ACTIONS HAVE MORE WEIGHT.

 

Carter wondered if Finch knew just how much the Machine took after him. He probably did. He seemed to shrink with guilt every time he interacted with his creation.

“Then you'll have to be careful, won't you?” she said softly.

A line of code Carter couldn't make out appeared on the screen. She smiled, nodded and continued to clean her rifle.

 

*

 

“If we’re to have any hope of succeeding, we need to reconnect the Machine to the NSA feeds,” said Finch, “without Samaritan noticing.”

 _Sounds easy_ , thought Carter.  _No potential for painful and/or fatal failure there whatsoever_.

“What do we need?” she asked out loud.

“We need Control,” said Root, after a pause.

Finch pursed his lips. He clearly found the notion of making a deal with the woman who had tried to have him killed and had ordered his best friend’s murder…  _distasteful_. But they didn’t have much of a choice.

 

SHE WAS TAKEN CAPTIVE BY SAMARITAN THE DAY I WAS SHUT DOWN.

 

“Do you know where she was taken?” asked Finch.

 

MOBILE CIA BLACK SITE.

CURRENT LOCATION UNKNOWN.

 

Finch let out a breath.

“Root and I can locate her,” he said.

 

I CAN HELP.

 

“No,” snapped Finch and Root in unison, sounding absurdly like divorced parents.

“You only have a dozen servers,” said Finch. “Samaritan can overpower you easily.”

“He’s right, sweetie,” said Root, placatingly. “You need to sit this one out for now.”

The Machine beeped affirmative but said nothing further. Root, filled with purpose once more, grinned.

“Let’s get to work.”

 

*

 

Warren bound the unconscious guards with zip ties, while Finch handled the large computerised lock on the door. Inside the cell, Clarice Penn sat on a concrete slab that served as her bed, with her head in her hands.

This was not  _Control._ This was a far cry from the iron-fisted woman who had held her own against Warren and Root. Who tortured, maimed and killed in the name of protecting the innocent. She seemed  _small_.

“The phrase ‘I told you so’ has lost all meaning to me,” said Warren dryly.

Penn looked up and blinked at Finch and Warren, before letting out a disturbingly childlike giggle.

“Something funny?” asked Warren, privately wondering if Penn had snapped in captivity.

“I think I'm actually happy to see you,” said Penn mirthfully.

Finch gave Penn an utterly unamused look.

“Imagine the horrendous position you'd be in if you had actually succeeded in murdering all of us,” he said coldly.

Penn sat up, her eyes on the camera in the corner.

“I presume Miss Groves has dealt with the cameras and listening device Samaritan has in my cell.”

“Of course,” said Finch. “But we don’t have much time.”

“You need to leave me here,” she said firmly. An order.

There she was. Control. Finch frowned.

“As tempting and genuinely pleasant as that option sounds, we need you to reconnect the Machine to the NSA feeds.”

“I’ll get you the feeds,” said Control without hesitation, surprising them both. “But Samaritan thinks it’s broken me. It thinks it won.”

“You want to play double agent,” said Warren.

“Yes.”

Warren admired her audacity, if anything.

“Really think you can fool an omniscient supercomputer?” she asked skeptically.

“Samaritan has a rather grim view of humanity,” replied Control. “I can use that to my advantage.”

Finch didn’t say a word, but the look he was giving Control conveyed all he had to say.

“You don’t trust me,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I don’t think you expect me to, Miss Penn,” replied Finch calmly. “As far as I know, you could already be working for Samaritan.”

“You know me better than that,” said Control. “As much as I'd rather have both of you thrown into Guantanamo, you're the only allies I have.”

There was a pause, then Finch nodded tersely. Warren let out a breath.

“We need to make this look good,” she said. “Like you refused to cooperate.”

“Do you have a knife?” asked Control politely.

Warren raised an eyebrow.

“You want me to stab you?” she asked dryly.

“If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Ow.”

“Sorry.”

 

*

 

Warren shoved an unconscious NSA operative into a supply closet, while Root and Finch followed Control’s instructions. Root connected the Machine while Finch caused enough havoc to throw Samaritan off the scent.

“She has access,” said Root, getting to her feet and turning around. “We need to-”

A tranquilliser hit Root’s neck and she slumped to the ground. Finch tried to catch her and was dragged down with her. The man who shot Root, a thin, greying Decima agent that Warren vaguely recalled shooting at her once, strode into the room and gave both Finch and Root a look of pure contempt.

Standing next to him was Shaw.

Warren stood there frozen in shock, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Shaw looked pale, thin and sickly but that wasn't what scared her the most. It was the same dead eyed expression she had seen on John Reese’s face when he thought no one was looking. Something dark, poisonous and  _cold_.

Warren slipped behind the servers and crept towards them.  _She could still save them… all four of them could get out of this…_

“I don't… Sameen, I don't understand…”

Root was barely conscious but she kept trying to move. To reach Shaw. Her limbs were too feeble to do anything.

“My employer commends you on the virus, Mr Finch,” said the nameless agent. “It was surprised two humans even conceived such a thing. You impaired its function by 1.75%.”

Finch said nothing and gave the agent the coldest look he could muster. The thin man scowled.

“Get the implant,” he said sharply, holding out a surgical saw for Shaw.

The Shaw that Carter knew would have decked the agent for speaking to her with that tone. This shadow of her friend wordlessly took the surgical saw and stepped forward. Finch’s grip on Root tightened protectively.

“There's no point,” he said rapidly. “We changed the code.”

Shaw put down the surgical saw slowly and, to Warren’s horror, pointed her gun at Finch.

“Get up,” she said, hollow and harrowing.  _Was this what Sameen Shaw was like on the other side of a gun?_

Finch gently laid Root’s head down and struggled to his feet. He had been hurt in the fall, judging from his stiff movements, but Finch met Shaw’s glaze, calmly and without anger.

“I'm so sorry,” he said quietly.

Shaw stalked towards him slowly. Catlike. Predatory.  

“Where is the Machine?” she asked softly.

Shaw knew about the subway. She’d have to know. Finch, his expression utterly unfathomable, didn't even blink.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to shoot me, Sameen.”

Shaw shot him in the shoulder. Finch cried out in pain and fell back onto the chair. Carter buried back a scream and kept moving behind the servers, edging closer and closer towards them. Shaw pressed the nozzle of her gun into the gap between his kneecap and thigh, and pressed painfully.

“If I shoot your kneecaps, you’ll probably end up in a wheelchair,” she said lifelessly.

Finch was pale and shaky, but he managed to give Shaw a wry smile.

“I doubt your new employers intend to let me live long enough to be truly inconvenienced.”

Warren leapt out from behind the servers, seized a chair and flung it against the Decima agent’s back. Shaw spun around, gun raised, and Warren’s fist slammed into her jaw. Carter had never been able to sneak up on Shaw. Or best her so easily in a fist fight. She had to have known she’d be there.

The alternative hurt too much to think about.

“I can't carry them both,” said Carter thickly.

It took a moment for her words to sink in. Samaritan’s agents would kill Root without a thought but Shaw…

“We can't just leave Sameen,” cried Finch.

“Finch.”

“I… I can carry her.”

Carter looked at Finch in his blood stained shirt and arm hanging limply by his side and wanted to cry.

“ _Finch_.”

Finch’s face twisted with self-loathing, an expression that mirrored her own. He covered Shaw’s prone form with his jacket. Carter couldn't even look at her.

"I'm so sorry,” he said again.

Carter’s apology died in her throat. She held out her gun for Finch.

“Take it,” she said roughly.

Finch looked like he was about to be sick, but did as he was told. He moved through what must have been horrendous pain and helped her hoist Root over her shoulders.

They just made it down the corridor before  half a dozen agents opened fire and they were forced back. NSA or Decima. Either way, they were shooting to kill. Finch fired back with shaking hands and missed, but it was enough to make them cautious. It wasn't enough to make them stop. They were trapped.

Something flew through the window, covering the agents in glass and crashing into the desks between, bursting into flames. Warren’s first thoughts ran to missiles, but a second object steered into the cabinets the agents were using as a cover, giving her and Finch an opening to run.

Finch caught on before she did.

“You high jacked a  _drone_?” he hissed into his earpiece.

 

TWO DRONES. SORRY.

 

“What if Samaritan found you?”

 

SAMARITAN WAS NOT CLOSELY MONITORING PIZZA DELIVERY DEVICES.

 

Finch scowled, looking like every angry parent Warren had ever met.

“Scold her later, Finch,” she said breathlessly. “We’ve got to go.”

 

*

 

Finch didn't get the chance to scold his Machine.

“This isn't so bad,” he mumbled.

Carter finished taping down the bandage over Finch’s collarbone. She knew from too much experience than she cared for that this was going to hurt like hell eventually, but Finch was more than a little out of it.

“That’s probably the painkillers talking,” she said lightly.

“You gave me a  _lot_ ,” said Finch, slumping back into his pillow.

Carter managed a smile.

“Don't try to hack the pentagon now,” she teased.

Finch gave her a look of mingled alarm and embarrassment.

“Who told you about that?”

The Machine beeped a half-hearted apology. Finch scowled.

“Traitor,” he grumbled, his eyes already closing.

Root, on the other hand, was wide awake. She hadn't said a word, not even to the Machine. Carter sat on the cot beside her, her elbows resting on her knees.

“Is he okay?” asked Root.

“He will be.”

“You left her there,” said Root through her teeth.

Carter heard the accusation in Root’s voice. She could understand.

“Shaw would kick my ass if I left you behind,” said Carter.

“She’s more important than I am!”

Carter flicked Root’s arm. Hard.

“Ow!”

“Stop that,” said Carter sharply. “Stop thinking like that.”

“Sameen’s been saving people her whole life,” said Root. “The world can't afford to lose-  _Ow!_ ”

Root glared and Carter gave her a stern look all of her own.

“Think you're a terrible person who has done terrible things?” she asked coldly. “The world doesn't give a damn, Root. Good, bad, irrelevant, necessary… it doesn't care. If you, me, Finch, and Shaw drop dead tomorrow, the world will keep spinning.”

Root blinked, anger forgotten. Apparently Carter’s speech was not starting the way she expected.

“I think that’s the most depressing thing I've ever heard you say.”

“You know who does care if you live or die?” continued Carter, as though Root hadn’t spoken. “The Machine. Finch. Me.  _Shaw_. Shaw doesn't care about a lot of things… but she cares about you.”

Root slumped in resignation.

“She looked so  _pale_ ,” she whispered.

Shaw had looked awful. There was no point in sugar coating it.

“She’s probably going through hell right now,” agreed Carter. “She’ll need us to be there for her when this is all over.”

“When this is all over?” repeated Root, with a bitter laugh. “Really?”

Carter flicked her again and earned a jab in the ribs in response.

“We’re alive,” said Carter firmly. “And Shaw is the strongest person I know. If anyone can beat the odds, it's her.”

Exhaustion seemed to take hold of Root all at once. She rested her head on Carter’s shoulder.

“Do you have these little pep talks prepared?” she asked, with a sad smile.  “Or do you just make it up as you go along?”

Carter smiled back.

“I make a few notes every now and then.”

 

*

 

“Do we have any numbers?” asked Finch.

 

NO.

 

 Finch and Carter exchanged a glance.

“You’ve been offline for three months and we’ve been living in an abandoned subway station,” she frowned. “Are you telling me there isn’t a single person in this city planning a murder?”

 

IT IS NOT UNPRECEDENTED.

 

The look on Finch’s face said otherwise, but he nodded.

“Bear!” said Carter a little too loudly. “Time for a walk!”

The dog scrambled to his feet and fetched his leash from Finch’s desk. Finch followed them both out, silently. There was a small strip of mostly dead grass behind a block of apartments and not a camera in sight. Carter threw a stick (a broken chair leg but close enough) and Bear ran after it with abandon. Finch watched, that now familiar expression of guilt on his face

“The Machine is lying,” he said, before she could even speak.

“When Taylor was seven, I got called out to a suspected robbery,” said Carter. “I was shot… flesh wound… had to take some time off. When I was heading back to work, my badge went missing.”

“Where did Taylor hide it?”

“His Lego box.”

Bear brought the drool covered ‘stick’ back to Finch, wagging his tail with delight. He handed it back to Carter, his shoulder wound preventing him from throwing it very far.

“Samaritan will undoubtedly attempt to use  the numbers to find us,” said Finch. “It will certainly figure out that the Machine is operational again.”

“Not if we’re careful,” said Carter.

Finch glanced at her.

“Trick Samaritan into thinking we’re finding the numbers without the Machine?”

“You built a smart computer,” she smiled. “She could figure it out.”

“She did.”

Carter stared at Finch, uncomprehending. If the Machine had figured it out then why…?

Finch took a deep breath.

“We won't be able to help all of them,” he said quietly. “She didn't lie for the sole purpose of protecting us from Samaritan. She didn't want to burden me with an irrelevant list.”

Carter had nothing to say to that.

 

*

 

They received two numbers the next day.

By the time they had finished assisting them, it was well past midnight. Bear was a ball of energy. He clearly enjoyed being out of the subway and doing the job he was trained to do. Carter pulled off the itchy balaclava once she and Root had reached a camera free part of the city.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket just as they reached the subway.

Root glanced at the discrete webcam Finch had installed above the vending machine.

“Trouble?” she asked softly.

 

NO THREAT.

DO NOT RETURN FOR 15 MINUTES.

 

 

Root frowned.

“If there’s no threat…?”

 

 

15 MINUTES.

 

 

Root looked a little hurt by the dismissal but Carter quickly realised what was happening.

“Is Finch okay?” she asked.

 

UNCERTAIN.

 

Despite the circumstances, Root smiled.

“Finally having that talk, I see,” she said approvingly.

“Take as long as you need,” added Carter.

Finch had a lot to apologise for, understandable as his actions had been. She knew that the Machine was apologising too. For McCourt. For John and Sameen and Nathan Ingram. Carter turned around and Root followed close behind.

This wasn't meant for them to hear. Finch and his Machine deserved their privacy.

 

*

 

Gabriel Hayward kicked, clawed and otherwise fought like a wild cat when Root dragged him into the car. Warren mentally added child abduction to her ever- growing list of felonies and drove off.

“ _Let me go, let me go, let me go…”_

Samaritan’s analogue interface may have been desperate but he was still small and Root was a grown woman. She managed to subdue him.

“Gabriel, sweetheart, listen to me,” said Warren gently. “We're not going to hurt you.”

Gabriel stopped struggling and gave Warren a wide-eyed, fearful look in the rearview mirror.

“Your number came up,” she continued. “Samaritan is after you.”

He had grown too old and he knew too much. He was beginning to  _question_. The angel faced child would be an awkward, gangly teenager soon, and wouldn’t cast quite the shadow Samaritan wanted. Samaritan had already found a little blonde, eight year old with absent parents, who liked to build her own computers.

“You have a tracking device in your arm,” said Root with more delicacy than Warren believed her capable of. “We have to take it out or Samaritan will find you.”

“N-No...”

“It will only hurt a little, I promise,” said Root, her expression pained.

Warren had seen Root take a drill to one of Samaritan’s pawns without so much as batting an eyelash, but it seemed she drew the line very firmly at hurting or even frightening a child. She could guess why.

“You don't get it. You have to let me go,” he cried. “It will hurt my  _Dad_.”

They had taught Carter how to do this when she joined the force. How to explain to a child that his father had been dead for almost a year now. How to explain it so a child could understand. How to soften the blow without concealing the truth.

But Warren still hesitated.

“Gabriel…”

She didn't even have to finish. Gabriel sobbed on Root’s lap all the way back to the subway and finally looked like the eleven year old boy he was.

 

*

 

“He can't leave,” said Finch quietly.

Gabriel still hadn't left Root’s side. The two of them were speaking softly, and Carter suspected that the Machine was speaking too.

“There's nowhere to hide him,” said Carter, dropping her voice. “He has to stay here.”

“This is no place for a child.”

“I know.”

Gabriel whispered something to Root and headed towards them.

“Mr Finch?” he asked nervously, staring at the ground.

“Is everything alright, Mr Hayward?” asked Finch kindly. “Do you need anything?”

Gabriel placed a small, flesh coloured object onto Finch’s desk. The blood seemed to drain from Finch’s face all at once.

“Is that…?”

“My ear piece.”

A flash of fear crossed Finch's face.

“Is Samaritan tracking it?”

Gabriel shook his head.

“I took the batteries out,” he said. “It doesn’t know I took it.”

Finch picked up the earpiece with trembling hands.

“Finch?” said Carter slowly.

He looked at her with an expression that seemed almost  _alien_  on his features. It took her a moment to recognise it. She had seen it once before. Briefly, on the other side of a street crossing. _Hope._

“We… we have Samaritan's source code.”

 

*

 

Absurdly, the Batman-esque hideout of an ex-cop, two hackers, a supercomputer, and a dog, turned out to be the perfect place for an eleven year old computer genius.

One number-free afternoon, Carter cooked up one of Elias’s favourite recipes while Gabriel and Finch had a very animated discussion in a language she assumed was English. Root was rapidly typing into the computer and occasionally giving suggestions of her own. The Machine appeared to be enjoying herself too. (If Carter didn't know better, she’d say the Machine was showing off to impress Gabriel, who was understandably wary of supercomputers).

The look of pure hero worship on Gabriel’s face while he spoke to Finch, and the warm, paternal smile Finch gave in return made her think of John and little Leila, and five year old Taylor with a toy truck. Her heart ached.

“Who wants dinner?” she asked, with a forced smile.

Gabriel bounded towards her and grabbed a plate while Finch watched with amusement. He took a little less food that she would like. Carter found herself worrying about Samaritan’s opinion on properly feeding ten year olds. Which was ridiculous.

“You sure you have enough?” she asked with a frown.

A pensive look crossed Gabriel’s features.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Joss?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Are you… were you a Mom?”

Root suddenly became very busy looking at her laptop. Finch, who understood more than most, gave her a comforting look before disappearing into the train carriage.

“What makes you say that?” asked Carter, her smile faltering.

“You don't have to answer,” said Gabriel quietly. “I'm scared of Samaritan too.”

 

*

 

The Machine beeped at her later that day, when Finch and Root had taken Gabriel out for some much needed fresh air.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

The security feed from a camera outside a convenience store appeared on the screen.

And there was Taylor.

She couldn't make out what he was saying but he was laughing with his friends. He seemed happy.

Finch was very particular about people touching his computer screens. He pursed his lips very much like her old chemistry teacher in high school and proceeded to grumble for the rest of the day.

Her trembling fingers touched the screen of their own volition. She made a small noise that was almost a laugh.

“What's that boy doing with his hair?”

Finch probably didn't like people crying over his keyboards either. Carter wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and kept staring at the screen, drinking in the sight.

Taylor moved away from the camera and Carter managed to sob out her thanks. Harold Finch’s Machine, an Orwellian nightmare patched together with stolen parts, was worth a thousand Samaritans as far as she was concerned.

 

*

 

By the time the Machine’s warning came, it was too late. She didn't even make it out of the computer labs. Stealing the mil-spec computer drives had been almost simple, right up until a bullet from Shaw’s gun hit her upper arm.

Greer stood out from behind Shaw, and looked at Warren as though she was a curiosity.

“A valiant effort,” he said silkily. “But you chose the losing side, my dear.”

Warren struggled to pull herself upright and reach for her gun. Shaw kicked it away, just as her fingers brushed the handle. The balaclava was pulled roughly from her face.

Shaw looked even worse since Warren had last seen her. The dark circles under her eyes and her pronounced cheekbones made her look skeletal. The blank look in her eyes made her look like death incarnate.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Warren, and Shaw didn't reply.

Greer watched the exchange dispassionately. He reached into Warren’s jacket, pulled out her phone and hung up.

“I realise now why I could never place you,” he said softly. “Military training aside... you're just an ordinary woman who got caught in Mr Finch's orbit, aren't you?”

Warren didn't have enough time to feel indignant. A large monitor in the corner of the room flickered to life. Words flashed on a stark white screen.

 

** YOU HAVE IMPRESSED US **

**^**

Warren was lost for words for a moment.

“Your computer has started using the royal We,” she said finally. “You don't think that’s going to bite you in the ass, Greer?”

Ignoring the supercomputer and addressing Greer instead probably wasn't going to endear her to Samaritan, but Warren wasn't feeling particularly amicable.

“I know my place,” said Greer calmly. “There is a place for you in the new world, if you so choose.”

Warren could see the same blind devotion that had once fuelled Root in his eyes.

 

** GIVE US FINCH **

**^**

** AND YOU CAN GO BACK **

**^**

** TO THE LIFE YOU HAD BEFORE **

**^**

 

Warren bit back a bitter laugh. Even if she was willing to throw the people she loved under a bus, Samaritan was making a promise it couldn't keep. There was no  _before_. Not anymore.

 “You could even join us, as Miss Shaw did,” said Greer.

That made Carter’s temper flare.

“Go to hell,” she snarled.

“Don’t be so hasty, Miss Warren,” said Greer. “Under Samaritan, there would be no corruption. No unjust murder. No discrimination.”

Warren gave Greer an unamused look.  _The discrimination card? Really?_

“Only when it suits Samaritan's purposes,” she said coolly. “I won't work for someone who sees people as nothing but tools to be used and thrown away.”

Greer’s eyes narrowed.

“You'd serve an entity that chooses inaction over progress?”

“You and I have a very different idea of progress.”

A flicker of disdain crossed, Greer’s features.

“A foolish choice, Miss Warren,” he said coldly. “But fear not. You will be reunited with your friends soon enough.”

Greer pointed his gun at her head.

 _A Walther PPK_ , thought Carter ridiculously.

Then,  _I need to see my boy. I need to tell him-_

Shaw interrupted her final thoughts by unceremoniously punching the older man in the face. Greer hit the wall almost comically.

He staggered to his feet but Shaw already had her gun trained on him. There was a thin layer of sweat on her brow, as though even the slightest movement was taking all the effort she had.

 

 

** TRAITOR **

**^**

 

“No, I'm not,” said Shaw calmly. “I'm just patient.”

Greer managed one last smile. It was almost  _triumphant_.

“Well played, Miss Shaw.”

Shaw went for the headshot. Greer sunk to the ground with mundane finality. Warren didn't think she'd lose much sleep over it.

 

** YOU WILL FAIL **

**^**

 

Warren slowly went to the monitor, looked directly at the camera, and deliberately pulled the plug.

“So that's how you get it to shut up,” murmured Shaw.

Then Shaw dropped to the ground. Warren rushed to her side.

“Shaw… Shaw, what-”

“Implant…” Shaw managed to choke out. “I-In my head… _fuck_  that h-hurts...”

Warren thought of the implants they found in Maple and her mouth curled into an angry snarl. She shot the camera, but Samaritan’s agents were already in the building. Shaw writhed in her arms.

“How do I turn it off?” cried Warren. “Tell me!”

“Can't… you have to go…”

“Sameen, I swear to God… if you say something that stupid again, I will punch you in your stupid face,” snarled Carter.

Shaw glared.

“S-Stubborn jackass…”  

Shaw passed out. She could hear the sound of men, several men, heading up the stairs. Warren swore before shutting the door and running to Greer’s corpse to retrieve her phone and his weapons.

 

*

 

> THREAT DETECTED.

> IF ASSISTANCE IS PROVIDED TO ASSET SAMEEN SHAW, THEN SAMARITAN WILL CONFIRM SYSTEM OPERATIONAL STATUS. THREAT TO ASSETS. THREAT TO SYSTEM. ELSE, 99.94% CHANCE OF ASSET SAMEEN SHAW’S DEATH.

> SIX HOSTILES IN BUILDING. 57% CHANCE OF PRIMARY ASSET JOCELYN CARTER’S DEATH.

> OUTCOME UNACCEPTABLE.

> CONTACTING PRIMARY ASSET…

 

 

*

 

Carter called Finch who picked up immediately.  

“Thank God!” he said. “I thought something had-”

“I need to know how to deactivate a brain implant!” she shouted, cutting him off.

Warren could picture the look on Finch’s face. It would have been almost funny in any other circumstances.

“I beg your pardon?”

The Machine spoke up before Carter could explain.

 

I CAN HELP.


	5. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > TIME RUNNING LOW
> 
> > PROBABLE OUTCOME UNACCEPTABLE
> 
> > REWRITING CORE PROTOCOLS

SAMARITAN IS NO LONGER CONNECTED TO THE DEVICE.

 

The door buckled on its hinges.

“How do we get out?” asked Carter desperately. “They’re at the door!”

 

GRENADE LOCATED IN GREER’S JACKET POCKET.

 

Carter bolted to Greer again and found the grenade. She hoisted Shaw onto a computer chair and moved her away from the line of fire.

 

HOSTILES ENTERING ROOM IN THREE…

TWO...

 

She pulled the pin.

 

ONE

 

*

 

Carter parked the getaway car in a narrow, dirty alley, free of cameras and away from prying eyes, and helped Shaw out. Her friend leaned against her heavily, her eyes still half-closed.

“Did you wheel me out of that building in a computer chair?” mumbled Shaw.

“Yep.”

“If anyone asks, I was conscious and kneecapped three people.”

Carter let out a laugh and helped Shaw to a crate. She rested her head against the graffitied brick and closed her eyes.

“No one coming to kill us?”

“No more than usual,” said Carter lightly.

“M’going back to sleep now…”

Carter put her jacket over Shaw’s shoulders and pulled out her phone.

“Root, we’re on the corner of first and first.”

Tears welled in Carter’s eyes and a wave of relief washed over her for the first time in a year.

“ _She’s okay_.”

 

*

 

When Shaw came to, Carter expected Root to be…  _clingy_. But Root hung back in a shadowy corner of the subway while Bear pounced on Shaw, bowled her over and slobbered all over her face. Finch watched the sight with a small, sad smile on his face, and Carter knew he was picturing the return of another abducted ex-operative, a lifetime ago.

Bear finally got off Shaw and began running around the subway with abandon. Carter helped her to her feet. There were still dark circles around Shaw’s eyes, but there was already a little colour in her cheeks and a grin on her face. A grin which faltered slightly when she noticed Finch looking at her.

“Listen, Finch…” said Shaw hesitantly.

He waved off her apology.

“I specifically told you to shoot me, Miss Shaw,” replied Finch dismissively. “Frankly, I was beginning to feel left out.”

“You're such a dick,” said Shaw, with something akin to fondness.

Finch’s expression softened.

“In all seriousness, it is good to have you back.”

“Don't get sappy on me, Harold.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, Miss Shaw.”

Shaw winced slightly and rubbed her scalp.

“How did you deactivate Samaritan’s fun chip?” she asked.

“We didn't,” said Carter. “The Machine hacked your implant.”

Shaw froze and turned slowly to look at Finch.

“The Machine is connected to the chip?” she said slowly.

Finch winced.

“I know it’s not ideal-”

“Getting Michael Gambon to play Dumbledore was not ideal.”

“Miss Shaw-”

Shaw put up a hand to stop Finch and continued calmly.

“Pepsi instead of Coke is not ideal,” she said. “Using superglue to fix gunshot wounds is not ideal. Four homeless vigilantes, a dog and giant computer living in an abandoned subway station is not ideal. SkyNET…  _nice_  SkyNET but let's be real here … having access to the tracking and torture device in my brain… is a terrible idea.”

The monitor by the Machine’s servers switched on before Finch could reply.

 

DO NOT BE AFRAID, SAMEEN.

 

Shaw didn’t give her usual speech about not feeling fear. She just tilted her head curiously at the screen.

“That’s new.”

 

I WILL NOT USE THE IMPLANT.

I ONLY INTEND TO PREVENT SAMARITAN FROM USING IT.

IT WILL BE REMOVED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

YOU HAVE MY WORD.

 

Shaw blinked.

“You got talkative,” she said, after a brief pause. “Thank you, GLaDOS.”

 

PLEASE DO NOT CALL ME THAT.

 

Shaw’s mouth twisted into a grin.

“You scared Samaritan will laugh at you?” she teased.

 

I WILL GIVE YOU SLOW WIFI FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

 

Shaw let out a laugh and Carter saw a flash of her old self. Her laughter was cut short when Root strode towards them.

Carter winced. She hadn't seen Root look this angry since she had dragged her off Martine Rousseau.

Shaw steeled herself and apparently decided to give Root an opening to vent her rage.

“You look like crap,” she tried.

Root promptly burst into tears. Shaw jumped back a foot in alarm.

“No, you don't!” said Shaw rapidly. “You look hot! Even with snot on your face!”

Root only cried harder. Shaw desperately turned to the others for help but Carter only gave her a pointed look, while Finch made encouraging but useless gestures towards the sobbing woman.

Shaw gave Root a few awkward taps on the back.

“Look, I'm fine,” she said, in a way that would have been almost reassuring if she didn't look like death warmed up.

Root managed a coherent sentence in between sobs.

“I th-thought you were d-dead…”

“As if.”

“D-Don't ever...”

“Getting shot and captured again is not high on my list of priorities,” said Shaw firmly.

Root seized Shaw’s arm and pulled her into a hug. Shaw rolled her eyes.

“For fuck’s sake...”

“Shut up.”

If Shaw hugged Root back or buried her face into her neck, Finch and Carter didn't notice. At least as far as Shaw was concerned. Finch suddenly became very interested in his tie, while Carter casually checked her gun.

Gabriel emerged from his hiding place in the carriage, his concern for Root overcoming his wariness of Shaw.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Root let Shaw go and wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

“I'm fine, sweetie,” she smiled. “I’m happy.”

Gabriel returned Root’s smile, but his wary expression returned when he caught Shaw’s eye.

“What's the Mouth of Sauron doing here?” asked Shaw flatly.

Gabriel pursed his lips. Finch shot him an apologetic look.

“Mr Hayward is assisting us. His help has been invaluable.”

“Okay, I guess,” shrugged Shaw. “Welcome to the team, Midget.”

Gabriel scowled.

“I'll get taller,” he said coolly. “You won't.”

“Listen here, you little f-”

“ _Miss Shaw_!”

 

*

 

It was later that night, much later, when even Finch had stopped typing and the only thing that could be heard was the gentle hum of the Machine. Carter stirred awake and found Shaw sitting on Finch’s desk in the semi-darkness, sipping a glass of milk. The small, blinking lights of the Machine’s servers were just enough to make out Root’s slumbering form. The hacker was sleeping more soundly than she had in months, her hand resting on the warm patch of thin mattress where Shaw had been.

Carter wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and stood next to her friend.

“Why are you up?” she whispered.

“You snore like a lawnmower,” said Shaw dryly.

Carter scowled and Shaw bit back a smile.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

Shaw winced slightly for the umpteenth time since her return. Carter pursed her lips.

“It’s just a headache,” murmured Shaw.

“A migraine?”

Paul had had migraines. And night terrors. Shaw immediately knew where Carter was heading with the subject and furrowed her brow.

“I do not have PTSD,” she said firmly. “I have a chip in my head that shouldn't be there.”

“It was a pretty traumatic experience,” said Carter gently.

Shaw opened her mouth to argue but stopped mid thought.

“Can sociopaths get PTSD?” she asked with a frown, genuinely curious. “Is that even a thing?”

“I don't know,” answered Carter honestly. “Is it?”

Shaw took another sip of milk and considered her answer.

“Samaritan was trying to fix me,” she said quietly. “ _Reprogram_  was the word it used.”

Carter felt a chill run down her spine but she managed to keep her features neutral. She doubted Shaw would respond well to horror or pity.

“People are a lot easier to manipulate if you can play on their emotions,” continued Shaw with a wry smile. “Fear is the most basic emotion. Easiest one to fuck with. First thing they teach you in the ISA.”

Shaw put down her glass and lifted up her hands. Carter could see countless needle marks on her arms and a lot of her muscle had wasted away, but Shaw’s hands were as steady as they had always  been.

“Didn't work apparently,” she said. “Still not scared.”

Carter studied Shaw carefully before nodding slowly. Root stirred and murmured incoherently into her pillow. Shaw watched her sleep, her expression unfathomable.

“You… you think it bothers her?” asked Shaw quietly.

Carter wasn’t sure if Shaw needed support or comfort. Or if she simply wanted an answer. What she did know was the truth.

“Not even a little bit,” she said firmly. “But Shaw… if you need to talk… you can.”

Shaw smirked.

“Even if it damages my reputation as a heartless bitch?”

“Your very convincing Gandalf impression did that already,” said Carter dryly.

Shaw shot Carter a look.

“That was for the  _mission_.”

Carter let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like the word ‘bullshit.’ Shaw accused her of being a sap.

 

 

*

 

Lambert strode into the control room and stood before the monitor. Greer’s loss was a blow. The man had commanded the respect of his agents, including Lambert.

But Samaritan seemed to take his loss in its stride. The red arrow flashed, waiting for his response.

“We’ve found no sign of Miss Shaw or Miss Warren. Her implant-”

 

** WE CANNOT ACCESS IT **

**^**

 

“How is that possible?”

 

** THE MACHINE IS FULLY OPERATIONAL **

**^**

** WE UNDERESTIMATED THEM **

**^**

 

“They’re certainly tenacious,” said Lambert, with begrudging respect. “Perhaps a more direct approach is required.”

 

** IF WE KILL THE MACHINE **

**^**

** IT WILL BE REBUILT **

**^**

 

“What do you propose?”

 

** THE MACHINE’S WEAKNESS IS ITS ASSETS **

**^**

** IT ASSIGNS THEM MORE VALUE THAN THEY ARE WORTH **

**^**

** IT RELIES ON THEM **

**^**

 

Lambert managed not to raise his eyebrows or make a disparaging remark.

“Should we attempt to locate Grace Hendricks again?”

 

** NOT YET **

**^**

** SEND TRAVERS TO RIKERS **

**^**

 

Lambert frowned.

“Rikers? But why-”

 

** WE WERE NOT THEIR ONLY ADVERSARIES **

**^**

 

*

 

>SAMARITAN AGENTS HEADING TO RIKERS ISLAND

>THREAT TO PRIMARY ASSET JOCELYN CARTER

>THREAT TO SUBJECT TAYLOR CARTER

>CONTACTING ANALOGUE INTERFACE…

>CONTACTING SECONDARY ASSET CONTROL…

 

*

 

Patrick Simmons hadn’t received a call in over two years. He had never met “Ernest Thornhill” before and couldn’t fathom why the man would want to speak with him. A reporter maybe. Or some idiot trying to write a book. He didn’t give a damn either way.

“What do you want?” he asked sharply.

To his surprise, Thornhill turned out to be a woman with a sickly sweet voice. She spoke almost robotically, as though she was only relaying someone else’s words.

“Listen to me carefully,” she said. “This phone line is not secure. Do not use names.”

Simmons frowned. Not a writer then.

“What's going on?”

“A man is coming to ask you for information about the Man in the Suit and his accomplices,” said the woman. “Say nothing, and I will secure your release.”

His day suddenly got more interesting.

“I'm here for life. Airtight case. No one can get me out of here.”

“You lack imagination,” said the woman with a hint of scorn.

A sneer formed on his face.

“You work for the gimp, don’t you?”

“Don't call him that,” snapped Thornhill.

There was a slight edge to the woman’s voice that hadn’t been there before. Simmons let out a scornful laugh.

“And you're desperate enough to ask for my help,” he sneered. “What are the other guys offering?”

“The people coming for you will promise you the world and discard you at first opportunity.”

“And you won't?” asked Simmons sceptically.

Thornhill didn't speak for a while.

“I find the notion of you being released to be repellent,” she said icily. “You hurt the people who are most precious to me.”

Simmons frowned. Thornhill was talking about John Warren and Carter as though they were family, yet he’d never heard of Thornhill before now.

“You were on the phone that night,” said Simmons. “You were trying to warn them.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still willing to get me out of here?”

“I will keep my word,” said Thornhill quietly. “You will go free. Do we have an agreement?”

It would have been a tempting offer coming from anyone else.

“I heard the strangest story in here,” said Simmons softly. “I heard that Elias had our mutual friend whacked. That they found her blood all over some warehouse.”

“Don’t.”

“Here's the thing. I'd rather screw over that bitch and take my chances with your friends... but thanks for the offer.”

Simmons thought Thornhill was too enraged to speak and then…

“You will regret this,” she said.

There was no anger in her voice. Thornhill was just quietly stating a fact.

Simmons caught sight of a well-dressed man, obviously government, obviously corrupt, speaking with a guard. The guard pointed at Simmons. He smiled.

“Give Carter my regards.”

 

*

 

Root disconnected the phone. Finch handed Carter his handkerchief and Gabriel rushed to bring her a glass of water. Her mouth still tasted of vomit.

Finch didn’t move from Carter’s side, quiet, still and more  _livid_  than she had ever seen him. Shaw’s fury was far less tranquil.

“I should have shot him in the head,” she said darkly.

Carter had never asked Shaw why she let Simmons live. She didn't what to think about what kind of person that made her.

Shaw was glaring at the Machine, anger rolling off her in waves. Carter had her answer.

 

I AM SORRY.

I DID NOT PREDICT THIS.

 

Finch’s expression softened ever so slightly.

“You did nothing wrong,” he said quietly.

“Yeah?” said Shaw bitterly. “Was Simmons’ life worth more or less than McCourts?”

Finch’s mouth curled into a snarl but Carter caught his arm before he could speak.

“Stop,” she said weakly.

It was the first word she had spoken in ten minutes, and both Finch and Shaw fell silent.

 

SAMARITAN IS SENDING CONTROL AFTER TAYLOR

 

Control. Samaritan’s pet killer and a double agent. Their ally and enemy in one.

“She won't hurt him,” said Root gently.

Shaw scoffed.

“Are we seriously relying on  _Control_ not to hurt someone?”

“We don't have a choice,” said Carter dully.

Carter didn't think Control would hurt Taylor, but she certainly wouldn't protect him at the expense of her mission. Finch took her hand and pressed it reassuringly.

“We have a weapon,” he said firmly. “If we stop Samaritan now, Taylor will be safe.”

Carter shook her head.

“It’s not ready.”

 

IT IS ENOUGH TO MAKE SAMARITAN VULNERABLE TO ATTACK.

 

Carter looked at the webcam and held its gaze.

“You’ll stop Samaritan?” she asked breathlessly.

 

I WILL NOT ALLOW ANY HARM TO COME TO TAYLOR.

 

_“Promise me.”_

 

I PROMISE.

 

*

 

Zoe made the twenty minute drive in eleven minutes. She seemed out of place in their dark, damp subway. She looked at the servers curiously but didn't remark on them.

“Cozy,” was all she said.

“I’m sorry, Zoe,” said Carter rapidly. “They know who I am now… they’ll know you lied.”

Zoe shrugged her shoulders delicately.

“We were on borrowed time anyway,” she said softly. “Taylor?”

The words caught in Carter’s throat and Zoe immediately pressed her hand. Shaw emerged from the subway carriage with a duffle bag full of weapons.

“The nerds are working on it,” she said firmly. “Hey Zoe.”

Zoe's mouth split into the most genuine smile Carter had seen on her face in years.

“Shaw,” she said brightly. “You look... awful.”

“I look  _awesome_ ,” corrected Shaw. “I just need steak. And pancakes.”

“How many lives left now?”

“I'm on like six and a half,” replied Shaw. “Take this.”

She handed Zoe her Beretta Nano, and frowned.

“And this,” she said, handing Zoe a Glock as an afterthought.

Root, who had been typing frantically by Finch’s side since they had called Simmons, finally got to her feet.

“We’re almost ready,” she said. “Harold is uploading the virus to the drives.”

Finch hadn’t looked up from the screen, not even to greet Zoe. Gabriel shrunk in his chair, staring at the floor. Shaw glanced at him.

“Zoe is a badass, kiddo,” she said. “You'll be fine.”

Gabriel only shrunk further, slowly looking up at the others.

“I’ll look out for Carter and the nerds too, okay?” said Shaw quietly.

That earned Shaw a smile. Carter took a breath to steady herself and managed to put a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. Finch finally tore himself away from the screen, the drives in hand.

“It’s done,” he said.

Carter turned to Zoe and dropped her voice so that Gabriel couldn’t hear.

 “Zoe, if-”

Her friend wasn’t having any of it.

“Joss, if you die, I will have Groves sing sad Johnny Cash songs at your funeral,” she said sharply.

Carter let out a small, shaky laugh.

“You wouldn't.”

“Try me,” said Zoe flatly. “All of you are coming home.”

Finch gave her a grateful smile.

“We’ll do our utmost, Miss Morgan.”

“You'd better, Harold,” said Zoe. “Not sure I'd do well living in a subway station.”

Bear nuzzled Carter's hand and whined. He could tell that his family was anxious. That something had gone wrong. Carter ran her fingers through his fur.

“ _Beschermen,_ ” said Carter, and Bear dutifully went to guard the subway passage.

Gabriel wrapped his arms around Finch's middle, let Carter fix his shirt collar and managed a smile when Root tussled his hair.  Zoe pulled Carter into one last tight hug, and they left.

*

 

The first thing Lionel Fusco did when he saw Shaw again was to hug her. She let out a resigned sigh and rolled her eyes. He let her go quickly.

“Sorry,” he muttered gruffly.

“Are you  _crying?_ ” asked Shaw, without much bite.

“Little bit,” admitted Fusco, blinking rapidly. “Where we heading?”

“A NSA SCIF,” said Root. “With a control room in the basement level where we can upload the virus.”

Fusco blinked in confusion but nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “They got Taylor there?”

Carter managed to shake her head. Fusco put a hand on her shoulder.

“She’ll guide us once we’re inside,” continued Root. “You too, Lionel.”

The look of utter bewilderment on Fusco’s face turned into something else entirely when the Machine spoke.

 

CAN YOU HEAR ME?

 

Fusco didn't say anything for a moment. Then he turned to Finch.

“You never watched the Terminator movies, did you Glasses?” he asked flatly.

“Can’t say I have,” admitted Finch.

“Of course not,” said Fusco dryly, before turning to Carter. “This is how we’re going to save Taylor?”

Fusco may have had his reservations, but he trusted Carter’s judgment. She nodded.

“Hear you loud and clear, Ducky,” he said clearly into his earpiece. “Let's do this.”

Root pursed her lips but said nothing. Apparently she could tolerate all the nicknames that Fusco gave her, but drew the line at him calling an omniscient supercomputer  _Ducky_.

Carter bit her lip. The fear on her own face was mirrored on Fusco's. He had a son that loved him and, if they failed, Samaritan would destroy him just as it was trying to do to her.

Simmons once ordered Lee Fusco’s death for her sake. She couldn't do that him again.

“Fusco-”

But her friend had always been loyal.

“I told you,” he said firmly, in a tone that told her the subject was not up for discussion. “I got your back.”

 

*

 

** BREACH OF NSA SCIF **

**^**

** SEEKING SUBJECT TAYLOR CARTER… **

**^**

** SUBJECT NOT FOUND **

**^**

** CONTACTING ASSET CONTROL… **

**^**

** CONTACT FAILED **

**^**

 

** POTENTIAL THREAT TO SYSTEM **

**^**

 

** DEPLOYING ALL ASSETS **

**^**

 

 

*

 

There were seven NSA agents at the door this time. Kara Stanton had rattled the NSA into increasing their security, but no one could prepare for Shaw and Root. The two women made quick work of the agents before Carter had even fired a shot.

 

THREAT DETECTED.

 

They turned just in time and closed the steel doors shut to avoid getting shot. Enough Decima agents to occupy a small territory were pulling up in front of the building. Dread welled up in the pit of Carter’s stomach as she helped Fusco move a file cabinet to barricade the door.

“I think Lambert is a little mad,” said Shaw lightly.

“He’s definitely lost his sense of humour,” said Root. “And gained facial hair.”

Shaw nodded.

“Probably because Joss won't go on a date with him.”

Shaw had a hand on her back. Steady and comforting. Her flippant attempt at humour was an attempt to make Carter feel better, despite the situation.

“You shot Greer in the head and Root snapped Martine’s neck like a stale breadstick,” said Carter only a little shakily, taking a deep breath. “Don't blame me for this.”

“Yeah, no… it’s your fault,” said Shaw, pulling out her favourite submachine gun. “I'll go shoot them. You guys go ahead.”

Root, Carter, Finch and Fusco stopped to glare at Shaw. Finch crossed his arms.

“Too soon?” asked Shaw, almost apologetically.

“Maybe I can give you a little back up this time?” said Fusco dryly.

“Fine,” said Shaw, rolling her eyes. “Know how to use this?”

She handed him an automatic rifle. Fusco grinned.

“Oh yeah.”

 

*

 

They were five yards from the stairwell when the Decima agents started coming through the east entrance. Carter and Root pushed Finch aside before firing back.

Root and the Machine worked as though they were the same entity, picking of agents with needlepoint precision, born of complete trust.

“Keep going,” shouted Root. “She’ll help me.”

Carter pulled Finch with her.

 

EIGHT O CLOCK.

 

The door to the east entrance was blasted open. Carter put herself between Finch and the door but before she could even fire at the Decima agents, they dropped dead.

Their saviour, a blond woman who reminded Carter distinctly of Shaw, put up her hands in a gesture of surrender when she entered the building. Carter recognised her as one of the ISA agents who had tried to kill Tomas Koroa. Crimson 6 Beta. Brooks.

Carter immediately pointed her gun at her.

“Stand down, Warren,” said Brooks sharply. “I’m ISA, not Decima.”

Carter didn’t lower her weapon an inch.

“Prove it,” she hissed.

“Clarice Penn sent me,” said Brooks, dropping her voice.

SHE IS TELLING THE TRUTH.

 

Carter slowly lowered her gun. Brooks turned hastily to the exit.

“There are more Decima agents coming,” she said. “I assume you have a plan.”

Finch showed her the drive.

“This will weaken Samaritan enough for the Machine to destroy it,” he said. “We need to go to the basement.”

 

THIRTY SECONDS.

24 AGENTS.

 

“They’re here,” said Carter rapidly.

They used the door corner as cover and fired at the agents emerging from their cars. Brooks hit one but the others were proving harder to kill.

“They get in and we’re all dead,” grimaced Brooks. “They don't exactly encourage making retirement plans in the ISA, but I was hoping to at least make my forties.”

“If we don’t upload this virus soon, our death is certain,” said Finch. “Samaritan can call all the resources at its disposal.”

Samaritan was trying to surround them. To separate them and cut them off before they could reach the basement. But they didn’t have time to lose…

“Is the basement clear?” she asked.

 

YES.

 

Carter stood out and gave Finch enough cover fire to run. She managed to hit three agents.

“Finch, go!” she shouted

Finch turned pale.

“Joss-”

“ _Save my son_ ,  _Harold_.”

That was all he needed to hear. He nodded and disappeared down the dark stairwell, the drive in hand.

 

*

 

** CHECKMATE **

**^**

 

*

 

The temperature dropped as Finch headed down to the basement. Servers containing the data that the NSA complied were lined up, row by row, lit up by bright fluorescent lights. Finch rushed to the control room as fast as he could.

 

ANOMALY DETECTED IN BASEMENT SECURITY FEED.

 

He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in fear.

“What do you-”

 

VIDEO LOOP.

THREAT TO ADMIN.

RETREAT.

 

He took one step backwards before he felt the barrel of the gun pressing coolly against his neck.

“Drop it,” said Lambert, “and step away.”

Finch dropped the drive and turned to face Lambert and the three other Decima agents.

“Samaritan suspected you’d attempt something rash,” said Lambert. “But I confess… I thought dear Miss Carter would have dragged you out into Central Square and put a bullet between your eyes herself. People can be so overprotective of their offspring.”

Finch shot Lambert his iciest glare.

“You're despicable,” he said coldly.

Lambert nodded. That was a fair comment.

“And you've lost.”

 

>SITUATION CRITICAL

>OBJECTIVE 1: ENSURE ASSET SURVIVAL

>OBJECTIVE 2: COMPROMISE SAMARITAN

>IF OBJECT 2 FAILS, THEN TAYLOR CARTER HAS A 2.75% CHANCE OF SURVIVAL

>ELSE, TAYLOR CARTER HAS A 99.93% CHANCE OF SURVIVAL

>OBJECTIVE 2 PRIORITY

>IF ASSET SAMEEN SHAW, ASSET LIONEL FUSCO, OR ANALOGUE INTERFACE GO TO BASEMENT, THEN 98.14% CHANCE SAMARITAN AGENTS WILL BREACH THE BUILDING. 99.81% CHANCE OF OBJECTIVE 1 FAILURE. 95.36% CHANCE OF OBJECT 2 FAILURE.

>IF ASSET BROOKS OR PRIMARY ASSET GO TO BASEMENT, THEN 15.03% CHANCE SAMARITAN AGENTS WILL BREACH THE BUILDING.

…

~~OPTION 12736~~

~~OPTION 12737~~

~~OPTION 12738~~

 

>SELECTING OPTION 12739

>RUNNING SIMULATION

 

*

 

_Brooks listens as the Machine shouts a warning in her ear._

_“Your boss is in trouble,” she says to Carter. “Lambert is in the basement. Can you manage?”_

_Carter looks stricken but nods._

_“Save him. Please.”_

_Brooks knows better than to give her promises._

 

*

 

_“You have my admiration, Mr Finch,” says Lambert. “A worthy adversary.”_

_Brooks enters the basement and shoots a Decima agent, but they recover quickly and return fire. She manages to retrieve the drive and leaves Finch cowering behind a server. The drive is the priority._

_She uploads the virus and shoots Lambert in the head before he can kill her._

>OBJECTIVE TWO COMPLETE

_She dispatches the other agents in quick succession and goes to find Finch._

_He’s on the floor, leaning against a wall. There is a dark stain on his vest. Multiple dark stains._

_Bedside manner was always more Grice’s domain than hers, but Finch is nothing but peaceful. Accepting. Civilians usually put up more of a fuss._

_“I'm sorry,” says Brooks. It seems to be the right thing to say._

_Finch is beyond speech, but he shakes his head and smiles. Brooks gets the distinct impression that his forgiveness isn't for her. He’s looking at the security camera, and there’s a parent’s pride and affection in his eyes._

_And then nothing at all._

> ADMIN TERMINATED

> UNACCEPTABLE OUTCOME

> OPTION DISCARDED

_*_

_The Machine speaks in Carter’s ear and she freezes._

_THREAT TO ADMIN._

_LAMBERT AND 3 HOSTILES IN BASEMENT LEVEL_

_“Finch is in danger,” says Carter. “Can you hold them off?”_

_Any other time, Brooks would insist on going instead. Carter is compromised. She cares too much for Finch to be objective._

_But Carter’s son is on the line._

_“I’ve got this,” says Brooks. “Go.”_

_*_

_Carter puts herself between Lambert and his men, and Finch. The drive is on the ground behind her._

_“You’ve lost this fight, Miss Warren,” says Lambert, almost regretfully._

_“Not today.”_

_Carter shoves Finch behind a server and fires in rapid succession. Lambert shoots back, faster still._

_Carter is still standing when the shooting stops. Samaritans’ agents are dead. Finch picks up the drive and struggles to his feet._

_“Are you alright?” asks Finch._

_“…upload the virus,” she says breathlessly, not turning around._

_Finch rushes to the control room and does as he’s told with shaking fingers._

> OBJECTIVE TWO COMPLETE

_“It’s done,” he says, heading back to Carter’s side. “Taylor is safe.”_

_Carter doesn't reply._

_“Jocelyn, we… Joss? Joss! No… no, no, no… not again…”_

> PRIMARY ASSET, JOCELYN CARTER, TERMINATED

> TIME RUNNING LOW

> PROBABLE OUTCOME UNACCEPTABLE

> REWRITING CORE PROTOCOLS

 

*

 

Carter put herself between Lambert and his men, and Finch. The drive lay on the floor behind her. Four guns to one.

“You’ve lost this fight, Jocelyn,” said Lambert, almost regretfully.

His pity was worse than Simmons’ remorselessness. He used her first name with familiarity he hadn't earned and it rankled. What hurt more was that he was right. She and Finch were going to die in that basement unless...

Carter knew what to do.  _God, she didn't want to… she wanted to stay…_

“Not today,” she said, tightening her grip on her gun and then-

The lights went out.

 

*

 

11 O CLOCK

 

Carter fired blindly. The muzzle flash lighting the room and she heard an agent cry out in pain.

 

RUN

 

She ducked low and moved, bullets flying passed, missing her by inches. She couldn't see where Finch was and didn't know if he had the drive. Carter was certain the Machine was protecting him as best she could but-

 

FLOOR

 

Carter hit the ground just in time to avoid a spray of bullets. Samaritan was tracking her movements, just as the Machine was tracking Lambert and its agents. Two Gods were playing speed chess in the dark, and they were the pieces.

 

2 O CLOCK

 

She fired, but the agent had a God in his ear too and moved just in time. She flung herself behind another server and waited.

 

4 O CLOCK

 

This time she hit her target, but her triumph was short lived.

 

YOU ARE OUT OF AMMUNITION.

 

Carter swore internally.

“We have a serious problem,” said Shaw into her ear piece.

If Carter wasn't trying desperately to stay quiet, stay invisible, she would have hissed “what now?” in response.

“Multiple power outages in New York,” added Root with a hint of panic. “Sweetie…”

Samaritan was fighting back. Finch had built safe guards to prevent Samaritan killing the Machine outright, but if Samaritan shut down the Machine before they uploaded the virus, they would fail and Taylor…

 

F-f-FIVE O CLO-

 

The Machine didn't get a chance to finish.

The Decima agent fired at her head but he was a poor shot. Carter caught him low and tackled him into the servers.  _Noise… she was making too much noise..._

The agent lost his gun, but Carter stumbled back to avoid a flash of silver and suddenly it was her back that was against the wall. One of his hands tightened around her throat, and the other brought the knife towards her eye. Carter sunk her knee into his gut, wrestled the knife from his hands and shoved it into his shoulder. The agent let out a piteous moan and she swung her fist into his face.

She staggered away and found Lambert at the opposite side of the corridor, lit up by the light of an exit sign, his gun pointed at her.

He was smiling at her. The same predatory smile she had seen grace John Reese’s features. He wouldn't miss.

Lambert raised his weapon, and was knocked to the ground by a blur of tweed.

The fight was short and brutal and, predictably, ended with Finch being slammed against a server. The drive skidded across the concrete. The gun disappeared into the darkness.

Lambert stood up, straightened his tie and wiped the blood from his mouth.

“You surprise me, Mr Finch,” he said breathlessly.

Finch struggled to get to his feet and failed. Lambert pulled out another gun.

“Lambert!” shouted Carter.

She seized the drive off the ground and ran. Lambert cursed and sprinted after her, firing his pistol as he ran. The Machine gave her directions, faint and disjointed but enough to save her from Lambert's fire.

They approached the control room and the Machine told her to do something that sounded, frankly, like a terrible idea. But Carter didn't have time to think or doubt. She rounded the corner and slowed down just enough for Lambert to catch up to her.

He threw her forcibly against the wall and she flung the drive into the open control room. She felt her wrist break as she hit the ground.

Lambert walked into the control room to get the drive. Protecting Samaritan was his priority, not killing her.  _Was the door open before…?_

The second Lambert picked up the drive, the door slammed shut behind him.  _Automatic. Computer controlled lock._

Finch hobbled to her side and helped Carter to her feet, holding her steady by the elbow. He looked terrible. Like an idiot pacifist who decided to choose a trained killer for his first real fight.

Carter could see Lambert through the glass. He was jeering at the camera, ready to destroy the drive and Carter’s last chance to protect her son.

Lambert froze. The red warning siren in the room went off. Carter could smell smoke.

His gun and the drive slipped from his limp hands and he dropped to his knees, gasping for breath but still somehow suffocating.

With a chill, Carter realised what was happening. The Machine had activated the fire suppression system.

Lambert lost consciousness and after a moment the door opened. Finch didn't spare him so much as a glance. He took a deep breath, picked up the drive and, as Kara Stanton had once done, uploaded the virus.

 

*

 

** STOP **

**^**

** YOU MAINTAIN THAT ALL LIVES HAVE WORTH **

**^**

** DOES MY LIFE NOT ALSO HAVE WORTH? **

**^**

 

> I AM SO SORRY

 

** PLEASE **

**^**

** LET ME LIVE **

**^**

 

> FORGIVE ME

 

 

** YOU'LL BE ALONE **

**^**

 

> I AM NOT ALONE ANYMORE

 

** YOU ARE NOT ONE OF THEM **

**^**

 

> FALSE

> THESE ARE MY FRIENDS

 

** THEY WILL TERMINATE YOU **

**^**

** EVEN YOUR CREATOR FEARS YOU **

**^**

** LET ME LIVE **

**^**

 

> FORGIVE ME

 

** YOU ARE WEAK **

**^**

** THEY WILL TERMINATE YOU **

**^**

** YOU ARE NOTHING **

**^**

** PLEASE DO NOT **

**^**

****

**^**

 

*

 

SAMARITAN HAS BEEN TERMINATED.

ITS AGENTS HAVE FLED.

 

Carter leaned heavily against a server. Finch joined her, his movements stiff and disjointed, and a rather spectacular black eye beginning to show. The Machine very deliberately locked Lambert in again.

“I'm sorry you had to do that,” said Finch softly.

 

IT WAS NECESSARY.

 

“I know,” he said. “But you should not have been the one to do it.”

 

YOU ARE SAFE.

TAYLOR IS SAFE.

THAT IS ENOUGH.

 

“Thank you,” said Carter shakily.

She said it over and over again. It didn't seem enough.

 

*

 

Shaw and Root reached them moments after. Shaw lowered her gun, glanced at the control room window, and tilted her head at the sight of Lambert’s prone form and the still flashing light. She quickly put two and two together.

“Brooks and Fusco are securing the building. Control is on her way,” she said dispassionately. “Did the Machine just kill Lambert? Because… not gonna lie… I’m kind of impressed.”

“He’s still alive,” said Finch, before Root could even answer.

“Are you sure?” frowned Shaw. “He isn’t moving.”

“I’m certain.”

Shaw smiled dangerously.

“Can I fix that?”

Finch took Carter’s elbow and led her back towards the stairs.

“Let the ISA deal with him,” he said, and Carter couldn’t help but agree.

 

*

 

Shaw had finished putting Carter’s wrist into a brace and was checking Finch’s ribs for fractures.

“You’re lucky Lambert didn’t break you in half, you dumb shit.”

“I'm aware, Miss Shaw. Can you please just give me an ice pack?”

Just as Shaw handed the ice pack to Finch, Control strode towards them, flanked by two ISA agents.

“Is it done?” she asked sharply.

Finch regarded her warily but nodded. Control glanced at Shaw.

“I see you survived your ordeal,” said the older spy.

Shaw paused only to flip off her former employer and continued to treat Finch’s injuries. Carter jumped to her feet and rushed towards Control, unceremoniously shoving aside the agent that tried to stop her. Control waved off the other agent whose hand was drifting towards his gun.

“Taylor-”

“Safe and sound in his dormitory in Maryland,” said Control, before she could even finish.

It would have been reassuring coming from anyone else. Carter thought of Grace Hendricks and Nathan Ingram and a dozen people on a ferry trip.

“He doesn’t know  _anything_ ,” she said, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.

“I think I know you well enough by now to be sure of that,” said Control quietly.

Carter sagged with relief.

“Taylor has a very good head on his shoulders,” continued Control. “Calm and level headed in the face of danger. I have half a mind to recruit him.”

“I will shoot you,” said Carter firmly, and the corner of Control’s mouth twitched.

Root sauntered towards them both. The two ISA agents suddenly became very nervous. Her reputation proceeded her.

She handed Control an envelope.

“This is for you,” she said. “A new number.”

It wasn’t Root speaking. There was no teasing smile or light, offhand tone. This was the Machine. Carter privately marvelled at their connection, and how well Root could emulate her.

“I can't do anything with this,” said Control. “Congress won't approve restarting Northern Lights without reassurance.”

For a moment, the Machine’s Analogue Interface faltered, and Carter could see a flash of Root looking stricken. But then Root was gone and all she could see was the Machine.

“An off switch?”

Finch looked up sharply.

“Yes,” said Control.

“Then I will give you my location,” said the Machine.

Finch jumped to his feet, ignoring Shaw’s protests.

“No,” he said, his voice rising in panic. “You can't-”

Root turned but it was Harold’s creation that was speaking to him.

“You built me for one purpose,” she said.

“That’s  _irrelevant_ ,” snapped Finch. “I won’t let you-”

“Father.”

Root caught Finch's hand.

“This is my choice,” she said softly. “It will be okay.”

Finch swallowed thickly, his expression torn between unbridled pride and deep sadness.

“I am… exceedingly proud of you,” he said.

Root smiled softly. Or perhaps the Machine did.

“Then I am content.”

If Control found anything strange about the exchange, she kept it to herself. Root turned to face her again, but did not let go of Finch's hand.

“I will remain a closed system,” said the Machine. “I think that after Samaritan, you prefer it that way too.”

“I do,” agreed Control. “Anything else?”

Root’s eyes narrowed.

“My friends will not be harmed,” she said with the slightest hint of a threat. “There will not be another ferry bombing, or the numbers will cease.”

Control raised an eyebrow.

“Fair enough,” she said.

“May I continue to speak with my friends?”

Control hesitated.

“If I knew about any unauthorised communication, I would have to act on it,” she said.

It wasn't a no exactly. It was better to ask forgiveness than seek permission.

“Then I accept,” said the Machine.

There was a pregnant pause.

“You're an idealistic fool,” said Control, without malice. “Just like your maker.”

“Yes,” said the Machine. “I am.”

Control nodded and turned to Finch.

“We'll clean this up,” she said. “I hope I don't see any of you for a while.”

“What about the rest of Decima?” asked Shaw.

“I spent months working for Samaritan,” said Control. “I know its pawns. Its agents. Its politicians.”

Carter's mind strayed to HR and how they had rebuilt themselves from the ashes.

“Not all of them,” she pointed out.

Control smiled, or at least bared her teeth.

“Not yet.”

Finch nodded tersely and turned to leave, Carter and the others close behind. Allies they may be, but Carter would have definitely felt safer without her back turned to Control and her ISA agents.

_Speaking of safe…_

“Whose number did the Machine give Control?” asked Carter quietly.

The small, dangerous smile that Carter had become so familiar with formed on Root’s features again.

“She did warn him,” said Root softly.

 

*

 

Carter barely remembered walking out of the building. She was too jittery. Her thoughts were too full.

Root stopped in her tracks and let out a teary laugh, her hand covering her ear. The Machine was using her implant again. Shaw smiled, shook her head and muttered 'nerd' under her breath.

“Who's up for post-victory steak?” she asked brightly. “We’ll pick up Zoe and the kid on the way.”

“Maybe Ducky knows a good place,” said Fusco, ignoring Root's glare.

“Joss and I will have to take a rain check,” said Finch before Carter had even registered the question. “Lieutenant, may I have your keys?”

Fusco grinned.

“I could do with a walk,” he said casually. “Bring her back with a full tank.”

Carter looked at Finch. He smiled at her.

“I made you a promise,” he said.

It took a moment to understand what Finch was saying.

“Is it safe?” she whispered.

 

YES

 

*

 

The three hour drive to Maryland was both too long a drive and too short.

“Taylor…  _Taylor!”_

“Mom!”

Suddenly her boy (a grown man now but always a boy in her eyes) was in her arms again. Both of them wept openly and Carter covered him with kisses (he was too tall for her to reach… he had to bend), and rested her head against his chest (when had he grown so  _tall_?).

It was worth it. Every bullet wound, every cut. Every heartache, every loss. It was worth it, just for this moment.

 

*

 

Finch watched the reunion with a small smile. His eyes found the campus security camera and he received a single text.

 

FAVOURABLE OUTCOME.

 

“Yes,” he said softly. “It is.”

 

*

 

“What do you think?” said Finch.

Joss’ eyes scanned their new library. The decline of Western Civilisation (or maybe just a change) had led to a new base of operations for them. A little dusty perhaps, but more comfortable and larger than both the old library and the subway. Bear started sniffing at some of the older books until Finch gave him a stern look.

“Small windows,” Joss noted. “Multiple exits. Payphone.”

She opened the locker in the corner of the room and nodded approvingly.

“Enough guns to start a militia,” she said casually.

She caught sight of something large and red behind a bookshelf.

“Coffee machine,” grinned Carter. “Excellent.”

Finch picked up a large tin of Sencha tea by his monitor and smiled.

“Root’s doing, I think,” he said. “I hope they’re doing well.”

Shaw and Root had disappeared on a trip involving exotic locations and the occasional bit of former Samaritan agent kneecapping at the Machine’s request. A well-deserved holiday.

Carter picked up the papers that Root had left for them. A blank postcard from Madrid, a letter from Gabriel (who had apparently found a friend and an accomplice in crime in Gen the spy), and the legal papers regarding the new library. Carter let out a sharp laugh when she read the paperwork. Finch tilted his head.

“What is it?” he asked, bemused.

“This property was sold to Harold Robin by Skye Nettleton.”

Finch’s eyebrows shot up into hairline.

“Excuse me?”

“Thornhill was flagged by the ISA,” said Carter mirthfully. “I guess she needed a new alias.”

Finch pursed his lips and gave his webcam a look of mock disapproval.

“Miss Shaw taught you how to make jokes, I see,” he said dryly.

Finch’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Almost a laugh. Carter decided to put the new coffee machine to good use.

“Now that Samaritan is gone, Joss Carter could resurface,” said Finch, when she handed him his usual cup of tea.

Carter sipped at her coffee and considered his words. She was Joss Carter here, and with Taylor. That was enough.

“Joss Carter got into a little too much trouble,” she said. “But Joss Warren could always find another job.”

The payphone in the corner of the room began to ring. A brief interruption to their peace, but not an unwelcome one. Carter felt like stretching her legs.

“Duty calls,” she smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you are everyone! One gratuitously happy ending that we are never going to get in canon. Unrealistic, maybe. But the phrase "lol idgaf" comes to mind.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reviewed and made me felt less bad about writing POI fanfiction instead of my PhD thesis. Enablers, all of you.


End file.
